.IBRARY 
iversity  ol 
California 

Irvine 


75 


HYPERION, 


A    ROMANCE. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


Locli  not  mournfully  into  the  Part.     It  comet  not  back  again.     Wisely  improre 
Prussia.     It  it-  thine.    Qo  forth  to  meat  iht  ohndoxy  future,  without  fear,  and 
:i  u  manly  hCMl." 


TWKNTV-Kol  liTll    HI)|:  1U.\. 


BOSTON: 
T I  C  K  N O  R    AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LX1V. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1845,  by 

H.    W.    LONOFELLOW, 

ID  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


BOOK   THE  FIRST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    HERO. 

IN  John  Lyly's  "  Endymion,"  Sir  Topas  is 
made  to  say  :  "  Dost  thou  know  what  a  poet  is  ? 
Why,  fool,  a  poet  is  as  much  as  one  should  say,  — 
a  poet  !  "  And  thou,  reader,  dost  thou  know  what 
a  hero  is  ?  Why,  a  hero  is  as  much  as  one  should 
say, — a  hero  !  Some  romance-writers,  however, 
say  mucli  more  than  this.  Nay,  the  old  Lom 
bard,  Matteo  Maria  Bojardo,  set  all  the  church- 
bells  in  Scandiano  ringing,  merely  because  he  had 
found  a  name  for  one  of  his  heroes.  Here,  also, 
shall  church-bells  be  rung,  but  more  solemnly. 

The  setting  of  a  great  hope  is  like  the  setting 
of  the  sun.  The  brightness  of  our  life  is  gon£. 
Shadows  of  evening  fall  around  us,  and  the  world 
seems  but  a  dim  reflection,  —  itself  a  broader 


4  HYPERION, 

shadow.  We  look  forward  into  the  coming 
lonely  night.  The  soul  withdraws  into  itself. 
Then  stars  arise,  and  the  night  is  holy. 

Paul  Flemming  had  experienced  this,  though 
still  young.  The  friend  of  his  youth  was  dead. 
The  bough  had  broken  "  under  the  burden  of 
the  unripe  fruit."  And  when,  after  a  season,  he 
looked  up  again  from  the  blindness  of  his  sorrow, 
all  things  seemed  unrea.1.  Like  the  man  whose 
sight  had  been  restored  by  miracle,  he  beheld 
men,  as  trees,  walking.  His  household  gods 
were  broken.  He  had  no  home.  His  sympathies 
cried  aloud  from  his  desolate  soul,  and  there 
came  no  answer  from  the  busy,  turbulent  world 
around  him.  He  did  not  willingly  give  way  to 
grief.  He  struggled  to  be  cheerful,  —  to  be 
strong.  But  he  could  no  longer  look  into  the 
familiar  faces  of  his  friends.  He  could  no  longer 
live  alone,  where  he  had  lived  with  her.  He 
went  abroad,  that  the  sea  might  be  between  him 
and  the  grave.  Alas  !  between  him  and  his  sor 
row  there  could  be  no  sea,  but  that  of  time. 

He  had  already  passed  many  months  in  lonely 
wandering,  and  was  now  pursuing  his  way  along 
the  Rhine,  to  the  South  of  Germany.  He  had 
journeyed  the  same  way  before,  in  brighter  days 


A    ROMANCE.  5 

and  a  brighter  season  of  the  year,  in  the  May  of 
life  and  in  the  month  of  May.  He  knew  the 
beauteous  river  all  by  heart,  —  every  rock  and 
ruin,  every  echo,  every  legend.  The  ancient 
castles,  grim  and  hoar,  that  had  taken  root  as  it 
were  on  the  cliffs, — they  were  all  his  ;  for  his 
thoughts  dwelt  in  them,  and  the  wind  told  him 
tales. 

He  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  at  Rolandseck, 
and  had  risen  before  daybreak.  He  opened  the 
window  of  the  balcony  to  hear  the  rushing  of  the 
Rhine.  It  was  a  damp  December  morning  ;  and 
clouds  were  passing  over  the  sky,  —  thin,  vapory 
clouds,  whose  snow-white  skirts  were  "  often  spot 
ted  with  golden  tears,  which  men  call  stars."  The 
day  dawned  slowly  ;  and,  in  the  mingling  of  day 
light  and  starlight,  the  island  and  cloister  of  Non- 
nenwerth  made  together  but  one  broad,  dark  shad 
ow  on  the  silver  breast  of  the  river.  Beyond, 
rose  the  summits  of  the  Siebengebirg.  Solemn 
and  dark,  like  a  monk,  stood  the  Drachenfels,  in 
his  hood  of  mist ;  and  rearward  extended  the  cur 
tain  of  mountains,  back  to  the  Wolkenburg,  —  the 
Castle  of  the  Clouds. 

But  Flemrning  thought  not  of  the  scene  before 
him.  Sorrow  unspeakable  was  upon  his  spirit  in 


6  HYPERION, 

that  lonely  hour ;  and,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands, 
he  exclaimed  aloud  : — 

"  Spirit  of  the  past !  look  not  so  mournfully  at 
me  with  thy  great  tearful  eyes  !  Touch  me  not 
with  thy  cold  hand  !  Breathe  not  upon  me  with 
the  icy  breath  of  the  grave  !  Chant  no  more 
that  dirge  of  sorrow,  through  the  long  and  silent 
watches  of  the  night  !  " 

Mournful  voices  from  afar  seemed  to  answer, 
"  Treuenfels  ! "  and  he  remembered  how  others 
had  suffered,  and  his  heart  grew  still.- 

Slowly  the  landscape  brightened.  Down  the 
rushing  stream  came  a  boat,  with  its  white  wings 
spread,  and  darted  like  a  swallow  through  the  nar 
row  pass  of  God's-Help.  The  boatmen  were 
singing,  —  but  not  the  song  of  Roland  the  Brave, 
which  was  heard  of  old  by  the  weeping  Hilde- 
gund,  as  she  sat  within  the  walls  of  that  cloister 
which  now  looked  forth  in  the  pale  morning  from 
amid  the  leafless  linden-trees.  The  dim  traditions 
of  those  gray  old  times  rose  in  the  traveller's 
memory  ;  for  the  ruined  tower  of  Rolandseck  was 
still  looking  down  upon  the  Kloster  Nonnenwerth, 
as  if  the  sound  of  the  funeral  bell  had  changed  the 
faithful  paladin  to  stone,  and  he  were  watching  still 
to  see  the  form  of  his  beloved  one  come  forth,  not 


A    ROMANCE. 


from  her  cloister,  but  from  her  grave.  Thus  the 
brazen  clasps  of  the  book  of  legends  were  open 
ed,  and,  on  the  page  illuminated  by  the  misty  rays 
of  the  rising  sun,  he  read  again  the  tales  of  Liba, 
and  the  mournful  bride  of  Argenfels,  and  Sieg 
fried,  the  mighty  slayer  of  the  dragon.  Meanwhile 
the  mists  had  risen  from  the  Rhine,  and  the  whole 
air  was  filled  with  golden  vapor,  through  which  he 
beheld  the  sun,  hanging  in  heaven  like  a  drop  of 
blood.  Even  thus  shone  the  sun  within  him,  amid 
the  wintry  vapors  uprising  from  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  through  which  flowed  the  stream 
of  his  life,  —  sighing,  sighing  ! 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    CHRIST    OF   ANDERNACH. 

PAUL  FLEMMING  resumed  his  solitary  journey. 
The  morning  was  still  misty,  but  not  cold.  Across 
the  Rhine  the  sun  came  wading  through  the  red 
dish  vapors  ;  and  soft  and  silver-white  outspread 
the  broad  river,  without  a  ripple  upon  its  surface, 
or  visible  motion  of  the  ever-moving  current.  A 
little  vessel,  with  one  loose  sail,  was  riding  at  an 
chor,  keel  to  keel  with  another,  that  lay  beneath 
it,  its  own  apparition,  —  and  all  was  silent,  and 
calm,  and  beautiful. 

The  road  was  for  the  most  part  solitary ;  for 
there  are  few  travellers  upon  the  Rhine  in  win 
ter.  Peasant  women  were  at  work  in  the  vine 
yards  ;  climbing  up  the  slippery  hill-sides,  like 
beasts  of  burden,  with  large  baskets  upon  their 
backs.  And  once  during  the  morning,  a  band  of 
apprentices,  with  knapsacks,  passed  by,  singing, 


A    ROMANCE.  \f 

—  "  The   Rhine  !  the  Rhine  !   a  blessing  on  the 
Rhine  !  " 

O,  the  pride  of  the  German  heart  in  this  no 
ble  river !  And  right  it  is  ;  for,  of  all  the  rivers  of 
this  beautiful  earth,  there  is  none  so  beautiful  as 
this.  There  is  hardly  a  league  of  its  whole  course, 
from  its  cradle  in  the  snowy  Alps  to  its  grave  in 
the  sands  of  Holland,  which  boasts  not  its  peculiar 
charms.  By  heavens  !  If  I  were  a  German,  I 
would  be  proud  of  it  too  ;  and  of  the  clustering 
grapes  that  hang  about  its  temples,  as  it  reels  on 
ward  through  vjneyards  in  a  triumphal  march, 
like  Bacchus  crowned  and  drunken. 

But  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  Rhine ;  it 
would  make  this  chapter  much  too  long.  And  to 
do  it  well,  one  should  write  like  a  god  ;  and  his 
language  flow  onward  royally  with  breaks  and 
dashes,  like  the  waters  of  that  royal  river,  and  an 
tique,  quaint,  and  Gothic  times  be  reflected  in  it. 
Alas  !  this  evening  mine  flows  not  at  all.  Flow, 
then,  into  this  smoke-colored  goblet,  thou  blood  of 
the  Rhine  !  out  of  thy  prison-house,  —  out  of 
thy  long-necked,  tapering  flask,  in  shape  not  un 
like  a  church-spire  among  thy  native  hills  ;  and 
from  the  crystal  belfry  loud  ring  the  merry  tink 
ling  bells,  while  I  drink  a  health  to  my  hero,  in 


10  HYPERION, 

whose  heart  is  sadness,  and  in  whose  ears  the  bells 
of  Andernach  are  ringing  noon. 

He  is  threading  his  way  alone  through  a  narrow 
alley,  and  now  up  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  and 
along  the  city  wall,  towards  that  old  round  tower 
built  by  the  Archbishop  Frederick  of  Cologne  in 
the  twelfth  century.  It  has  a  romantic  interest  in 
his  eyes  ;  for  he  has  still  in  his  mind  and  heart 
that  beautiful  sketch  of  Carove,  in  which  is  de 
scribed  a  day  on  the  tower  of  Andernach.  He 
finds  the  old  keeper  and  his  wife  still  there  ;  and 
the  old  keeper  closes  the  door  behind  him  slowly, 
as  of  yore,  lest  he  should  jnm  too  hard  the  poor 
souls  in  purgatory,  whose  fate  it  is  to  sufier  in  the 
cracks  of  doors  and  hinges.  But,  alas  !  alas  !  the 
daughter,  the  maiden  with  long,  dark  eyelashes  ! 
she  is  asleep  in  her  little  grave,  under  the  lin 
den-trees  of  Feldkirche,  with  rosemary  in  her  fold 
ed  hands  ! 

Flemming  returned  to  the  hotel  disappointed. 
As  he  passed  along  the  narrow  streets,  he  was 
dreaming  of  many  things  ;  but  mostly  of  the  keep 
er's  daughter,  asleep  in  the  churchyard  of  Feld 
kirche.  Suddenly,  on  turning  the  corner  of  an 
ancient,  gloomy  church,  his  attention  was  arrest 
ed  by  a  little  chapel  in  an  angle  of  the  wall.  It 


A    ROMANCE.  11 

was  only  a  small  thatched  roof,  like  a  bird's  nest; 
under  which  stood  a  rude  wooden  image  of  the 
Saviour  on  the  cross.  A  real  crown  of  thorns  was 
upon  his  head,  which  was  bowed  downward,  as  if 
in  the  death  agony  ;  and  drops  of  blood  were 
falling  down  his  cheeks,  and  from  his  hands  and 
feet  and  side.  The  face  was  haggard  and  ghastly 
beyond  expression,  and  wore  a  look  of  unutter 
able  bodily  anguish.  The  rude  sculptor  had  given 
it  this,  but  his  art  could  go  no  farther.  The 
sublimity  of  death  in  a  dying  Saviour,  the  expiring 
God-likeness  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  was  not  there. 
The  artist  had  caught  no  heavenly  inspiration  from 
his  theme.  All  was  coarse,  harsh,  and  revolting 
to  a  sensitive  mind  ;  and  Flemming  turned  away 
with  a  shudder,  as  he  saw  this  fearful  image  gazing 
at  him,  with  its  fixed  and  half-shut  eyes. 

He  soon  reached  the  hotel,  but  that  face  ot 
agony  still  haunted  him.  He  could  not  refrain 
from  speaking  of  it  to  a  very  old  woman,  who 
sat  knitting  by  the  window  of  the  dining-room,  in 
a  high-backed,  old-fashioned  arm-chair.  I  believe 
she  was  the  innkeeper's  grandmother.  At  all 
events,  she  was  old  enough  to  be  so.  She  took  off 
her  owl-eyed  spectacles,  and,  as  she  wiped  the 
glasses  with  her  handkerchief,  said  :  — 


12  HYPERION, 

"  Thou  dear  Heaven  !  Is  it  possible  ?  Did  you 
never  hear  of  the  Christ  of  Andernach  ?  " 

Flemming  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Thou  dear  Heaven  !  "  continued  the  old  wo 
man.  "  It  is  a  very  wonderful  story  ;  and  a  true 
one,  as  every  good  Christian  in  Andernach  will 
tell  you.  And  it  all  happened  before  the  death 
of  my  blessed  man,  four  years  ago  ;  let  me  see,  — 
yes,  four  years  ago,  come  Christmas." 

Here  the  old  woman  stopped  speaking,  but 
went  on  with  her  knitting.  Other  thoughts  seem 
ed  to  occupy  her  mind.  She  was  thinking,  no 
doubt,  of  her  blessed  man,  as  German  widows 
call  their  dead  husbands.  But  Flemming  having 
expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  hear  the  wonderful 
story,  she  told  it,  in  nearly  the  following  words. 

"  There  was  once  a  poor  old  woman  in  Ander 
nach  whose  name  was  Frau  Martha,  and  she  lived 
all  alone  in  a  house  by  herself,  and  loved  all  the 
Saints  and  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  was  as  good  as 
an  angel,  and  sold  tarts  down  by  the  Rheinkrahn. 
But  her  house  was  very  old,  and  the  roof-tiles 
were  broken,  and  she  was  too  poor  to  get  new  ones, 
and  the  rain  kept  coming  in,  and  no  Christian  soul 
in  Andernach  would  help  her.  But  the  Frau 
Martha  was  a  good  woman,  and  never  did  any  body 


A    ROMANCE.  13 

any  harm,  but  went  to  mass  every  morning,  and 
sold  tarts  down  by  the  Rheinkrahn.  Now  one 
dark,  windy  night,  when  all  the  good  Christians  in 
Andernach  were  asleep  in  the  feathers,  Frau 
Martha,  who  lay  under  the  roof,  heard  a  great 
noise  over  her  head,  and  in  her  chamber,  drip  ! 
drip  !  drip  !  as  if  the  rain  were  dropping  down 
through  the  broken  tiles.  Dear  soul !  and,  sure 
enough,  it  was.  And  then  there  was  a  pounding 
and  hammering  overhead,  as  if  somebody  were  at 
work  on  the  roof;  and  she  thought  it  was  Pelz- 
Nickel  tearing  the  tiles  off,  because  she  had  not 
been  to  confession  often  enough.  So  she  began  to 
pray  ;  and  the  faster  she  said  her  Pater-noster 
and  her  Ave-Maria,  the  faster  Pelz-Nickel  pound 
ed  and  pulled  ;  and  drip  !  drip  !  drip  !  it  went  all 
round  her  in  the  dark  chamber,  till  the  poor 
woman  was  frightened  out  of  her  wits,  and  ran  to 
the  window  to  call  for  help.  Then  in  a  moment 
all  was  still,  —  death-still.  But  she  saw  a  light 
streaming  through  the  mist  and  rain,  and  a  great 
shadow  on  the  house  opposite.  And  then  some 
body  came  down  from  the  top  of  her  house  by  a 
ladder,  and  had  a  lantern  in  his  hand  ;  and  he  took 
the  ladder  on  his  shoulder  and  passed  down  the 
street.  But  she  could  not  see  clearly,  because 


14  HYPERION, 

the  window  was  streaked  with  rain.  And  in  the 
morning  the  old  broken  tiles  were  found  scattered 
about  the  street,  and  there  were  new  ones  on  the 
roof,  and  the  old  house  has  never  leaked  to  this 
blessed  day. 

"  As  soon  as  mass  was  over,  Frau  Martha  told 
the  priest  what  had  happened,  and  he  said  it  was 
not  Pelz-Nickel,  but,  wilhout  doubt,  St.  Castor  or 
St.  Florian.  Then  she  went  to  the  market  and 
told  Frau  Bridget  all  about  it ;  and  Frau  Bridget 
said,  that,  two  nights  before,  Hans  Glaus,  the  coop 
er,  had  heard  a  great  pounding  in  his  shop,  and  in 
the  morning  found  new  hoops  on  all  his  hogsheads  ; 
and  that  a  man  with  a  lantern  and  a  ladder  had 
been  seen  riding  out  of  town  at  midnight  on  a  don 
key  ;  and  that  the  same  night  the  old  windmill,  at 
Kloster  St.  Thomas,  had  been  mended,  and  the 
old  gate  of  the  churchyard  at  Feldkirche  made  as 
good  as  new,  though  nobody  knew  how  the  man 
got  across  the  river.  Then  Frau  Martha  went 
down  to  the  Rheinkrahn  and  told  all  these  stories 
over  again  ;  and  the  old  ferryman  of  Fahr  said  he 
could  tell  something  about  it  ;  for,  the  very  night 
that  the  churchyard-gate  was  mended,  he  was 
lying  awake  in  his  bed,  because  he  could  not 
sleep,  and  he  heard  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door, 


A    ROMANCE.  15 

and  somebody  calling  to  him  to  get  up  and  sei 
him  over  the  river.  And  when  he  got  up,  he  saw 
a  man  down  by  the  river  with  a  lantern  and  a  lad 
der  ;  but,  as  he  was  going  down  to  him,  the  man 
blew  out  the  light,  and  it  was  so  dark  he  could  not 
see  who  he  was  ;  and  his  boat  was  old  and  leaky, 
and  he  was  afraid  to  set  him  over  in  the  dark  ;  but 
the  man  said  he  must  be  in  Andernach  that  night ; 
and  so  he  set  him  over.  And  after  they  had 
crossed  the  river,  he  watched  the  man,  till  he 
came  to  an  image  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  and  saw 
him  put  the  ladder  against  the  wall,  and  go  up  and 
light  his  lamp,  and  then  walk  along  the  street. 
And  in  the  morning  he  found  his  old  boat  all 
caulked,  and  tight,  and  painted  red,  and  he  could 
not  for  his  blessed  life  tell  who  did  it,  unless  it  were 
the  man  with  the  lantern.  Dear  soul  !  how 
strange  it  was  ! 

"  And  so  it  went  on  for  some  time  ;  and  when 
ever  the  man  with  the  lantern  had  been  seen  walk 
ing  through  the  street  at  night,  so  sure  as  the 
morning  came,  some  work  had  been  done  for  the 
sake  of  some  good  soul  ;  and  every  body  knew  he 
did  it ;  and  yet  no  body  could  find  out  who  he  was, 
nor  where  he  lived  ;  —  for,  whenever  any  body 
came  near  him,  he  blew  out  his  light,  turned  down 


16  HYPERION, 

another  street,  and  suddenly  disappeared,  no  body 
could  tell  how.  And  some  said  it  was  Rubezalil ; 
and  some,  Pelz-Nickel  ;  and  some,  St.  Anthony- 
on-the-Heath. 

"  Now  one  stormy  night,  a  poor,  sinful  creature 
was  wandering  about  the  streets,  with  her  babe 
in  her  arms,  and  she  was  hungry,  and  cold,  and 
no  soul  in  Andernach  would  take  her  in.  And 
when  she  came  to  the  church,  where  the  great 
crucifix  stands,  she  saw  no  light  in  the  little  chapel 
at  the  corner  ;  but  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross  and  began  to  pray,  and  prayed, 
till  she  fell  asleep,  with  her  poor  little  babe  on 
her  bosom.  But  she  did  not  sleep  long  ;  for  a 
bright  light  shone  full  in  her  face  ;  and  when  she 
opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  a  pale  man,  with  a  lan 
tern,  standing  right  before  her.  He  was  almost 
naked  ;  and  there  was  blood  upon  his  hands  and 
body,  and  great  tears  in  his  beautiful  eyes,  and 
his  face  was  like  the  face  of  the  Saviour  on  the 
cross.  Not  a  single  word  did  he  say  to  the  poor 
woman  ;  but  looked  at  her  compassionately,  and 
gave  her  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  took  the  little  babe 
in  his  arms,  and  kissed  it.  Then  the  mother 
looked  up  to  the  great  crucifix,  but  there  was  no 
image  there  ;  and  she  shrieked  and  fell  down  as 


A    ROMANCE.  17 

if  she  were  dead.  And  there  she  was  found  with 
ner  child  ;  and  a  few  days  after,  they  both  died, 
and  were  buried  together  in  one  grave.  And  no 
body  would  have  believed  her  story,  if  a  woman, 
who  lived  at  the  corner,  had  not  gone  to  the  win 
dow,  when  she  heard  the  scream,  and  seen  the 
figure  hang  the  lantern  up  in  its  place,  and  then 
set  the  ladder  against  the  wall,  and  go  up  and  nail 
itself  to  the  cross.  Since  that  night  it  has  nev 
er  moved  again.  Ach  !  Herr  Je  !  " 

Such  was  the  legend  of  the  Christ  of  Ander- 
nach,  as  the  old  woman  in  spectacles  told  it  to 
Flemming.  It  made  a  painful  impression  on  his 
sick  and  morbid  soul  ;  and  he  felt,  now  for  the 
first  time,  how  great  is  the  power  of  popular  super 
stition. 

The  postchaise  being  already  at  the  door,  Flem 
ming  was  soon  on  the  road  to  Coblentz,  a  town 
which  stands  upon  the  Rhine,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Mosel,  opposite  Ehrenbreitstein.  It  is  by  no 
means  a  long  drive  from  Andernach  to  Coblentz  ; 
and  the  only  incident  which  occurred  to  enliven 
the  way  was  the  appearance  of  a  fat,  red-faced 
man  on  horseback,  trotting  slowly  towards  Ander 
nach.  As  they  met,  the  mad  little  postilion  gave 
him  a  friendly  cut  with  his  whip,  and  broke  out 
2 


IS  HYPERION, 

into  an  exclamation,  which  showed  he  was  from 
Munster  :  — 

"  Jesmariosp  !  my  friend  !  How  is  the  Man  in 
the  Custom-house  ?  " 

Now  to  any  candid  mind  this  would  seem  a  fail 
question  enough  ;  but  not  so  thought  the  red-faced 
man  on  horseback  ;  for  he  waxed  exceedingly  an 
gry,  and  replied,  as  the  chaise  whirled  by  :  — 

"  The  devil  take  you,  and  your  Westphalian 
ham,  and  pumpernickel  !  " 

Flemming  called  to  his  servant,  and  the  servant 
to  the  postilion,  for  an  explanation  of  this  short 
dialogue  ;  and  the  explanation  was,  that  on  the 
belfry  of  the  Kaufhaus  in  Coblentz  is  a  huge 
head  with  a  brazen  helmet  and  a  beard ;  and 
whenever  the  clock  strikes,  at  each  stroke  of  the 
hammer,  this  giant's  head  opens  its  great  jaws  and 
smites  its  teeth  together,  as  if,  like  the  brazen  head 
of  Friar  Bacon,  it  would  say, — "Time  was; 
Time  is  ;  Time  is  past."  This  figure  is  known 
through  all  the  country  round  about  as  "  The 
Man  in  the  Custom-house  "  ;  and  when  a  friend  in 
the  country  meets  a  friend  from  Coblentz,  instead 
of  saying,  "  How  are  all  the  good  people  in  Cob 
lentz  ?" —  he  says,  "How  is  the  Man  in  the 
Custom-house  ?  "  Thus  the  giant  has  a  great  part 


A    ROMANCE.  19 

to  play  in  the  town.  And  thus  ended  the  first  day 
of  Flemming's  Rhine-journey  ;  and  the  only  good 
deed  he  had  done  was  to  give  an  alms  to  a  poor 
beggar  woman,  who  lifted  up  ner  trembling  hands 
and  exclaimed  :  — 
"  Thou  blessed  babe  !  " 


20  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  III. 

HOMUNCULUS. 

AFTER  all,  a  journey  up  the  Rhine,  in  the  mists 
and  solitude  of  December,  is  not  so  unpleasant  as 
the  reader  may  imagine.  You  have  the  whole 
road  and  river  to  yourself.  Nobody  is  on  the 
wing  ;  hardly  a  single  traveller.  The  ruins  are  the 
same  ;  and  the  river,  and  the  outlines  of  the  hills  ; 
and  there  are  few  living  figures  in  the  landscape 
to  wake  you  from  your  musings,  distract  your 
thoughts,  and  cover  you  with  dust. 

Thus  likewise  thought  our  traveller,  as  he  con 
tinued  his  journey  on  the  morrow.  The  day  is 
overcast,  and  the  clouds  threaten  rain  or  snow. 
Why  does  he  stop  at  the  little  village  of  Capellen  ? 
Because,  right  above  him  on  the  high  cliff,  the  glo 
rious  ruin  of  Stolzenfels  is  looking  at  him  with  its 
hollow  eyes,  and  beckoning  to  him  with  its  gigantic 
finger,  as  if  to  say,  —  "  Come  up  hither,  and  I  will 
tell  thee  an  old  tale."  Therefore  he  alights,  and 


A    ROMANCE.  21 

goes  up  the  narrow  village  lane,  and  up  the  stone 
steps,  and  up  the  steep  pathway,  and  throws  him 
self  into  the  arms  of  that  ancient  ruin,  and  holds 
his  breath,  to  hear  the  quick  footsteps  of  the  fall 
ing  snow,  like  the  footsteps  of  angels  descending 
upon  earth.  And  that  ancient  ruin  speaks  to  him 
with  its  hollow  voice,  and  says  :  — 

"  Beware  of  dreams  !  Beware  of  the  illusions 
of  fancy  !  Beware  of  the  solemn  deceivings  of  thy 
vast  desires  !  Beneath  me  flows  the  Rhine,  and, 
like  the  stream  of  Time,  it  flows  amid  the  ruins  of 
the  Past.  I  see  myself  therein,  and  I  know  that 
I  am  old.  Thou,  too,  shalt  be  old.  Be  wise  in 
season.  Like  the  stream  of  thy  life,  runs  the 
stream  beneath  us.  Down  from  the  distant  Alps, 
—  out  into  the  wide  world,  it  bursts  away,  like  a 
youth  from  the  house  of  his  fathers.  Broad-breast 
ed  and  strong,  and  with  earnest  endeavours,  like 
manhood,  it  makes  itself  a  way  through  these  diffi 
cult  mountain-passes.  And  at  length,  in  its  old 
age,  it  falters,  and  its  steps  are  weary  and  slow, 
and  it  sinks  into  the  sand,  and,  through  its  grave, 
passes  into  the  great  ocean,  which  is  its  eternity. 
Thus  shall  it  be  with  thee. 

"  In  ancient  times,  there  dwelt  within  these  halls 
a  follower  of  Jesus  of  Jerusalem,  — an  Archbish- 


22  HYPERION, 

op  in  the  church  of  Christ.  He  gave  himself  up 
to  dreams  ,  to  the  illusions  of  fancy  ;  to  the  vast 
desires  of  the  human  soul.  He  sought  after  the 
impossible.  He  sought  after  the  Elixir  of  Life, 
—  the  Philosopher's  Stone.  The  wealth,  that 
should  have  fed  the  pooF,  was  melted  in  his  cru 
cibles.  *Within  these  walls  the  Eagle  of  the  clouds 
sucked  the  blood  of  the  Red  Lion,  and  received 
the  spiritual  love  of  the  Green  Dragon ;  but,  alas  ! 
was  childless.  In  solitude  and  utter  silence  did 
the  disciple  of  the  Hermetic  Philosophy  toil  from 
day  to  day,  from  night  to  night.  From  the  place 
where  thou  standest,  he  gazed  at  evening  upon 
hills,  and  vales,  and  waters  spread  beneath  him  ; 
and  saw  how  the  setting  sun  had  changed  them  all 
to  gold,  by  an  alchemy  more  cunning  than  his 
own.  He  saw  the  world  beneath  his  feet ;  and 
said  in  his  heart,  that  he  alone  was  wise.  Alas  ! 
he  read  more  willingly  in  the  book  of  Paracel 
sus  than  in  the  book  of  Nature ;  and,  believing 
that  <  where  reason  hath  experience,  faith  hath 
no  mind,'  would  fain  have  made  unto  himself  a 
child,  not  as  Nature  teaches  us,  but  as  the  Philos 
opher  taught,  —  a  poor  homunculus,  in  a  glass 
bottle.  And  he  died  poor  and  childless  !  " 
Whether  it  were  worth  while  to  climb  the  Stolz- 


A    ROMANCE  23 

enfels  to  hear  such  a  homily  as  this,  some  persons 
may  perhaps  doubt.  But  Paul  Flemming  doubt 
ed  not.  He  laid  the  lesson  to  heart  ;  and  it  would 
have  saved  him  many  an  hour  of  sorrow,  if  he  had 
learned  that  lesson  better,  and  remembered  it 
longer. 

In  ancient  times,  there  stood  in  the  citadel  of 
Athens  three  statues  of  Minerva.  The  first  was 
of  olive-wood,  and,  according  to  popular  tradition, 
had  fallen  from  heaven.  The  second  was  of 
bronze,  commemorating  the  victory  of  Marathon  ; 
and  the  third  of  gold  and  ivory,  —  a  great  miracle 
of  art,  in  the  age  of  Pericles.  And  thus  in  the 
citadel  of  Time  stands  Man  himself.  In  child 
hood,  shaped  of  soft  and  delicate  wood,  just  fallen 
from  heaven  ;  in  manhood,  a  statue  of  bronze, 
commemorating  struggle  and  victory  ;  and,  lastly, 
in  the  maturity  of  age,  perfectly  shaped  in  gold 
and  ivory,  —  a  miracle  of  art  ! 

Flemming  had  already  lived  through  the  olive 
age.  He  was  passing  into  the  age  of  bronze,  in 
to  his  early  manhood  ;  and  in  his  hands  the  flow 
ers  of  Paradise  were  changing  to  the  sword  and 
shield. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  I  have  not  yet  de 
scribed  my  hero.  I  will  do  it  now,  as  he  stands 


24  IIYPERIOJs, 

looking  down  on  the  glorious  landscape  ;  —  but 
in  few  words.  Both  in  person  and  character  he 
resembled  Harold  the  Fair-Hair  of  Norway,  who 
is  described,  in  the  old  Icelandic  Death- Song 
of  Regner  Hairy- Breeches,  as  "  the  young  chief 
so  proud  of  his  flowing  locks  ;  he  who  spent  his 
mornings  among  the  young  maidens  ;  he  who 
loved  to  converse  with  the  handsome  widows. " 
This  was  an  amiable  weakness  ;  and  it  sometimes 
led  him  into  mischief.  Imagination  was  the  rul 
ing  power  of  his  mind.  His  thoughts  were  twin 
born ;  the  thought  itself,  and  its  figurative  sem 
blance  in  the  outer  world.  Thus,  through  the 
quiet,  still  waters  of  his  soul  each  image  floated 
double,  "swan  and  shadow." 

These  traits  of  character,  a  good  heart  and  a 
poetic  imagination,  made  his  life  joyous  and  the 
world  beautiful ;  till  at  length  Death  cut  down  the 
sweet  blue  flower  that  bloomed  beside  him,  and 
wounded  him  with  that  sharp  sickle,  so  that  he 
bowed  his  head,  and  would  fain  have  been  bound 
up  in  the  same  sheaf  with  the  sweet  blue  flower. 
Then  the  world  seemed  to  him  less  beautiful,  and 
life  became  earnest.  It  would  have  been  well, 
if  he  could  have  forgotten  the  past  ;  that  he  might 
not  so  mournfully  have  lived  in  it,  but  might  have 


A    ROMANCE  25 

enjoyed  and  improved  the  present.  But  this  his 
heart  refused  to  do  ;  and  ever,  as  he  floated  upon 
the  great  sea  of  life,  he  looked  down  through  the 
transparent  waters,  checkered  with  sunshine  and 
shade,  into  the  vast  chambers  of  the  mighty  deep 
in  which  his  happier  days  had  sunk,,  and  where 
in  they  were  lying  still  visible,  like  golden  sands, 
and  precious  stones,  and  pearls  ;  and,  half  in  de 
spair,  half  in  hope,  he  grasped  downward  after 
them  again,  and  drew  back  his  hand,  filled  only 
with  seaweed,  and  dripping  with  briny  tears ! 
And  between  him  and  those  golden  sands  a  radi 
ant  image  floated,  like  the  spirit  in  Dante's  Para 
dise,  singing  "  Ave  Maria  !  "  and  while  it  sang, 
down-sinking,  and  slowly  vanishing  away. 

In  all  things  he  acted  more  from  impulse  than 
from  fixed  principle  ;  as  is  the  case  with  most 
young  men.  Indeed,  his  principles  hardly  had 
time  to  take  root  ;  for  he  pulled  them  all  up, 
every  now  and  then,  as  children  do  the  flowers 
they  have  planted,  —  to  see  if  they  are  growing. 
Yet  there  was  much  in  him  which  was  good  ;  for 
underneath  the  flowers  and  greensward  of  poetry, 
and  the  good  principles  which  would  have  taken 
root,  had  he  given  them  time,  there  lay  a  strong 
and  healthy  soil  of  common  sense,  —  freshened 


26  HYPERION, 

by  living  springs  of  feeling,  and  enriched  by 
many  faded  hopes,  that  had  fallen  upon  it  like 
dead  leaves 


A    ROMANCE.  27 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER. 

u  ALLEZ,  Fuchs  !  allez,  lustig  ! "  cried  the 
impatient  postilion  to  his  horses,  in  accents, 
which,  like  the  wild  echo  of  the  Lurley  Felsen, 
came  first  from  one  side  of  the  river,  and  then 
from  the  other,  —  that  is  to  say,  in  words  alter 
nately  French  and  German.  The  truth  is,  he 
was  tired  of  waiting  ;  and  when  Flemming  had  at 
length  resumed  his  seat  in  the  postchaise,  the  poor 
horses  had  to  make  up  the  time  he  had  lost  in 
dreams  on  the  mountain.  This  is  far  oftener  the 
case  than  most  people  imagine.  One  half  of  the 
world  must  sweat  and  groan,  that  the  other  half 
may  dream.  It  would  have  been  a  difficult  task 
for  the  traveller  or  his  postilion  to  persuade  the 
horses  that  these  dreams  were  all  for  their  good. 

The  next  stopping-place  was  the  little  tavern 
of  the  Star,  an  out-of-the-way  corner  in  the  town 
of  Salzig.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  ; 


28  HTPERION, 

and,  directly  in  front  of  it,  sheer  from  the  water's 
edge,  rise  the  mountains  of  Liebenstein  and  Ster- 
nenfels,  each  with  its  ruined  castle.  These  are 
the  Brothers  of  the  old  tradition,  still  gazing  at 
each  other  face  to  face  ;  and  beneath  them  in 
the  valley  stands  a  cloister,  —  meet  emblem  of 
that  orphan  child  they  both  so  passionately  loved. 

In  a  small  flat-bottomed  boat  did  the  land 
lady's  daughter  row  Flemming  "  over  the  Rhine- 
stream,  rapid  and  roaring  wide."  She  was  a 
beautiful  girl  of  sixteen  ;  with  black  hair,  and 
dark,  lovely  eyes,  and  a  face  that  had  a  story  to 
tell.  How  different  faces  are  in  this  particular  ! 
Some  of  them  speak  not.  They  are  books  in 
which  not  a  line  is  written,  save  perhaps  a  date 
Others  are  great  Family  Bibles,  with  both  the  Old 
and  the  New  Testament  written  in  them.  Others 
are  Mother  Goose  and  nursery  tales  ;  others, 
bad  tragedies,  or  pickle-herring  farces  ;  and  oth 
ers,  like  that  of  the  landlady's  daughter  at  the 
Star,  sweet  love-anthologies,  and  songs  of  the 
affections.  It  was  on  that  account  that  Flem 
ming  said  to  her,  as  they  glided  out  into  the  swift 
stream  :  — 

"  My  dear  child  !  do  you  know  the  story  of  the 
Liebenstein  ?  " 


A    ROMANCE.  29 

u  The  story  of  the  Liebenstein,"  she  answered, 
"  I  knew  by  heart,  when  I  was  a  little  child." 

And  here  her  large,  dark,  passionate  eyes 
looked  into  Flemming's,  and  he  doubted  not 
that  she  had  learned  the  story  far  too  soon  and 
far  too  well.  That  story  he  longed  to  hear,  as 
if  it  were  unknown  to  him  ;  for  he  knew  that  the 
girl,  who  had  got  it  by  heart  when  a  child,  would 
tell  it  as  it  should  be  told.  So  he  begged  her  to 
repeat  the  story,  which  she  was  but  too  glad  to 
do  ;  for  she  loved  and  believed  it,  as  if  it  had  all 
been  written  in  the  Bible.  But  before  she  began, 
she  rested  a  moment  on  her  oars,  and  taking  the 
crucifix,  which  hung  suspended  from  her  neck, 
kissed  it,  and  then  let  it  sink  down  into  her  bosom, 
as  if  it  were  an  anchor  she  was  dropping  into  her 
heart.  Meanwhile  her  moist,  dark  eyes  were 
turned  to  heaven.  Perhaps  her  soul  was  walk 
ing  with  the  souls  of  Cunizza,  and  Rahab,  and 
Mary  Magdalen.  Or  perhaps  she  was  thinking 
of  that  nun,  of  whom  St.  Gregory  says,  in  his 
Dialogues,  that,  having  greedily  eaten  a  lettuce 
in  a  garden,  without  making  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
she  found  herself  soon  after  possessed  with  a 
devil. 

The   probability,  however,  is,    that   she   was 


30  HYPERION, 

looking  at  the  ruined  castles  only,  and  not  to  heav 
en,  for  she  soon  began  her  story,  and  told  Flemming 
how,  a  great,  great  many  years  ago,  an  old  man 
lived  in  the  Liebenstein  with  his  two  sons  ;  and 
how  both  the  young  men  loved  the  Lady  Geral 
dine,  an  orphan,  under  their  father's  care  ;  and 
how  the  elder  brother  went  away  in  despair,  and 
the  younger  was  betrothed  to  the  Lady  Geral- 
dine  ;  and  how  they  were  as  happy  as  Aschen- 
puttel  and  the  Prince.  And  then  the  holy  Saint 
Bernard  came  and  carried  away  all  the  young 
men  to  the  war,  just  as  Napoleon  did  afterwards  ; 
and  the  young  lord  went  to  the  Holy  Land,  and 
the  Lady  Geraldine  sat  in  her  tower  and  wept, 
and  waited  for  her  lover's  return,  while  the  old 
father  built  the  Sternenfels  for  them  to  live  in 
when  they  were  married.  And  when  it  was 
finished,  the  old  man  died  ;  and  the  elder  broth 
er  came  back  and  lived  in  the  Liebenstein,  and 
took  care  of  the  gentle  lady.  Ere  long  there 
came  news  from  the  Holy  Land  that  the  war 
was  over ;  and  the  heart  of  the  gentle  lady 
beat  with  joy,  till  she  ( heard  that  her  faithless 
lover  was  coming  back  with  a  Greek  wife,  —  the 
wicked  man  !  and  then  she  went  into  a  convent 
and  became  a  holy  nun.  So  the  young  lord  of 


A    ROMANCE.  31 

Sternenfels  came  home,  and  lived  in  his  castle 
in  great  splendor  with  the  Greek  woman,  who 
was  a  wicked  woman,  and  did  what  she  ought 
not  to  do.  But  the  elder  brother  was  angry 
for  the  wrong  done  the  gentle  lady,  and  chal 
lenged  the  lord  of  Sternenlels  to  single  combat. 
And  while  they  were  fighting  with  their  great 
swords  in  the  valley  of  Bornhofen  behind  the 
castle,  the  convent  bells  began  to  ring,  and  the 
Lady  Geraldine  came  forth  with  a  train  of  nuns 
all  dressed  in  white,  and  made  the  brothers 
friends  again,  and  told  them  she  was  the  bride 
of  Heaven,  and  happier  in  her  convent  than  she 
could  have  been  in  the  Liebenstein  or  the  Stern 
enfels.  And  when  the  brothers  returned,  they 
found  that  the  false  Greek  wife  had  gone  away 
with  another  knight.  So  they  lived  togethei 
in  peace,  and  were  never  married.  And  when 
they  died " 

"  Lisbeth  !  Lisbeth  !  "  cried  a  sharp  voice 
from  the  shore,  "  Lisbeth  !  Where  are  you 
taking  the  gentleman  ?  " 

This  recalled  the  poor  girl  to  her  senses  ;  and 
she  saw  how  fast  they  were  floating  down  stream. 
For  in  telling  the  story  she  had  forgotten  every 
thing  else,  and  the  ^wift  current  had  swept  them 


32  HYPERION, 

down  to  the  tall  walnut-trees  of  Kamp.  They 
landed  in  front  of  the  Capuchin  monastery.  Lis- 
beth  led  the  way  through  the  little  village,  and 
turning  to  the  right  pointed  up  the  romantic,  lone 
ly  valley  which  leads  to  the  Liebenstein,  and 
even  offered  to  go  with  him.  But  Flemming 
patted  her  cheek  and  shook  his  head.  He  went 
up  the  valley  alone.  .  . 


A    ROMANCE.  33 


CHAPTER  V. 

JEAN    PAUL,    THE    ONLY-ONE. 

It  was  already  night,  when  Flemming  crossed 
the  Roman  bridge  over  the  Nahe,  and  entered 
the  town  of  Bingen.  He  stopped  at  the  White 
Horse  ;  and,  before  going  to  bed,  looked  out  into 
the  dim  starlight  from  his  window  towards  the 
Rhine,  and  his  heart  leaped  within  him  to  behold 
the  bold  outline  of  the  neighbouring  hills  crested 
with  Gothic  ruins  ;  —  which  in  the  morning  proved 
to  be  only  a  high,  slated  roof,  with  fantastic  chim 
neys. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  frosty  ;  and  the 
river  tinged  with  gay  colors  by  the  rising  sun. 
A  soft,  thin  vapor  floated  in  the  air.  In  the 
sunbeams  flashed  the  hoar-frost,  like  silver  stars  ; 
and  through  a  long  avenue  of  trees,  whose  drip 
ping  branches  bent  and  scattered  pearls  before 
him,  Paul  Flemming  journeyed  on  in  triumph. 

The  man  in  the  play,  who  wished  for  "  some 
forty  pounds  of  lovely  beef,  placed  in  a  Medi- 
3 


34  HYPERION, 

terranean  sea  of  brewis,"  might  have  seen  his 
ample  desires  almost  realized  at  the  table  d'hote 
of  the  Rheinischen  Hof,  in  Mayence,  where 
Flemming  dined  that  day.  At  the  head  of  the 
table  sat  a  gentleman,  with  a  smooth,  broad 
forehead,  and  large,  intelligent  eyes.  He  was 
from  Baireuth  in  Franconia  ;  and  talked  about 
poetry  and  Jean  Paul  to  a  pale,  romantic-look 
ing  lady  on  his  right.  There  was  music  all  din 
ner-time,  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall ;  a  harp 
and  a  horn  and  a  voice  ;  so  that  a  great  part  ot 
the  fat  gentleman's  conversation  with  the  pale 
lady  was  lost  to  Flemming,  who  sat  opposite  to 
her,  and  could  look  right  into  her  large,  melan 
choly  eyes.  But  what  he  heard  so  much  inter 
ested  him,  —  indeed,  the  very  name  of  the  be 
loved  Jean  Paul  would  have  been  enough  for 
this,  —  that  he  ventured  to  join  in  the  conversa 
tion,  and  asked  the  German  if  he  had  known  the 
poet  personally. 

"  Yes  ;  I  knew  him  well,"  replied  the  stran 
ger.  "I  am  a  native  of  Baireuth,  where  he 
passed  the  best  years  of  his  life.  In  my  mind 
the  man  and  the  author  are  closely  united.  I 
never  read  a  page  of  his  writings  without  hearing 
his  voice,  and  seeing  his  form  before  me.  There 


A    ROMANCE.  35 

he  sits,  with  his  majestic,  mountainous  forehead, 
his  mild  blue  eyes,  and  finely  cut  nose  and  mouth  ; 
his  massive  frame  clad  loosely  and  carelessly  in 
an  old  green  frock,  from  the  pockets  of  which 
the  corners  of  books  project,  and  perhaps  the 
end  of  a  loaf  of  bread  and  the  nose  of  a  bottle  ; 
—  a  straw  hat,  lined  with  green,  lying  near  him  ; 
a  huge  walking-stick  in  his  hand,  and  at  his  feet 
a  white  poodle,  with  pink  eyes,  and  a  string  round 
his  neck.  You  would  sooner  have  taken  him 
for  a  master-carpenter  than  for  a  poet.  Is  he  a 
favorite  author  of  yours  ?  "  Flemming  answered 
in  the  affirmative. 

"  But  a  foreigner  must  find  it  exceedingly 
difficult  to  understand  him,"  said  the  gentleman. 
u  It  is  by  no  means  an  easy  task  for  us  Germans." 

"  I  have  always  observed,"  replied  Flemming, 
"  that  the  true  understanding  and  appreciation  of 
a  poet  depend  more  upon  individual  than  upon 
national  character.  If  there  be  a  sympathy  be 
tween  the  minds  of  writer  and  reader,  the  bounds 
and  barriers  of  a  foreign  tongue  are  soon  over 
leaped.  If  you  once  understand  an  author's 
character,  the  comprehension  of  his  writings  be 
comes  easy." 

"  Very  true,"  replied  the  German,  "and  the 


36  HYPERION, 

character  of  Richter  is  too  marked  to  be  easily 
misunderstood.  Its  prominent  traits  are  tender 
ness  and  manliness,  —  qualities  which  are  sel 
dom  found  united  in  so  high  a  degree  as  in  him. 
Over  all  he  sees,  over  all  he  writes,  are  spread 
the  sunbeams  of  a  cheerful  spirit,  —  the  light 
of  inexhaustible  human  love.  Every  sound  of 
human  joy  and  of  human  sorrow  finds  a  deep- 
resounding  echo  in  his  bosom.  In  every  man, 
he  loves  his  humanity  only,  not  his  superiority. 
The  avowed  object  of  all  his  literary  labors  was 
to  raise  up  again  the  down-sunken  faith  in  God, 
Virtue,  and  Immortality  ;  and,  in  an  egotistical, 
revolutionary  age,  to  warm  again  our  human 
sympathies,  which  have  now  grown  cold.  And 
not  less  boundless  is  his  love  for  nature, — for 
this  outward,  beautiful  world.  He  embraces  it 
all  in  his  arms." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Flemming,  almost  taking 
the  words  out  of  the  stranger's  mouth,  "  for  in 
his  mind  all  things  become  idealized.  He  seems 
to  describe  himself  when  he  describes  the  hero 
of  his  Titan,  as  a  child,  rocking  in  a  high  wind 
upon  the  branches  of  a  full-blossomed  apple-tree, 
and,  as  its  summit,  blown  abroad  by  the  wind, 
now  sunk  him  in  deep  green,  and  now  tossed 


A    ROMANCE.  '37 

him  aloft  in  deep  blue  and  glancing  sunshine,  — 
in  his  imagination  stood  that  tree  gigantic  ;  —  it 
grew  alone  in  the  universe,  as  if  it  were  the  tree 
of  eternal  life  ;  its  roots  struck  down  into  the 
abyss  ;  the  white  and  red  clouds  hung  as  blossoms 
upon  it  ;  the  moon  as  fruit  ;  the  little  stars  spar 
kled  like  dew,  and  Albano  reposed  in  its  meas 
ureless  summit  ;  and  a  storm  swayed  the  summit 
out  of  Day  into  Night,  and  out  of  Night  into  Day." 
"Yet  the  spirit  of  love,"  interrupted  the  Fran- 
conian,  "  was  not  weakness,  but  strength.  It  was 
united  in  him  with  great  manliness.  The  sword 
of  his  spirit  had  been  forged  and  beaten  by 
poverty.  Its  temper  had  been  tried  by  a  thirty 
years'  war.  It  was  not  broken,  not  even  blunt 
ed,  but  rather  strengthened  and  sharpened,  by 
the  blows  it  gave  and  received.  And,  possess 
ing  this  noble  spirit  of  humanity,  endurance,  and 
self-denial,  he  made  literature  his  profession  ; 
as  if  he  had  been  divinely  commissioned  to  write. 
He  seems  to  have  cared  for  nothing  else,  to 
have  thought  of  nothing  else,  than  living  quietly 
and  making  books.  He  says  that  he  felt  it  his 
duty,  not  to  enjoy,  nor  to  acquire,  but  to  write  ; 
and  boasted  that  he  had  made  as  many  books 
as  he  had  lived  years." 


38  HYPERION, 

"  And  what  do  you  Germans  consider  the 
prominent  characteristics  of  his  genius  ?  " 

"  Most  undoubtedly,  his  wild  imagination  and 
his  playfulness.  He  throws  over  all  things  a 
strange  and  magic  coloring.  You  are  startled 
at  the  boldness  and  beauty  of  his  figures  and  il 
lustrations,  which  are  scattered  everywhere  with 
a  reckless  prodigality  ;  —  multitudinous,  like  the 
blossoms  of  early  summer,  —  and  as  fragrant 
and  beautiful.  With  a  thousand  extravagances 
are  mingled  ten  thousand  beauties  of  thought 
and  expression,  which  kindle  the  reader's  imag 
ination,  and  lead  it  onward  in  a  bold  flight, 
through  the  glow  of  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  the 
dewy  coldness  and  starlight  of  summer  nights. 
He  is  difficult  to  understand,  —  intricate,  — 
strange,  —  drawing  his  illustrations  from  every 
by-corner  of  science,  art,  and  nature,  —  a  com 
et,  among  the  bright  stars  of  German  literature. 
When  you  read  his  works,  it  is  as  if  you  were 
climbing  a  high  mountain,  in  merry  company,  to 
see  the  sun  rise.  At  times  you  are  enveloped 
in  mist,  —  the  morning  wind  sweeps  by  you  with 
a  shout, — you  hear  the  far-off  muttering  thun 
ders.  Wide  beneath  you*preads  the  landscape, 
—  field,  meadow,  town,  and  winding  river.  The 


A    ROMANCE.  39 

ringing  of  distant  church-bells,  or  the  sound  of 
solemn  village  clock,  reaches  you  ;  —  then  arises 
the  sweet  and  manifold  fragrance  of  flowers,  — 
the  birds  begin  to  sing,  —  the  vapors  roll  away, 
—  up  comes  the  glorious  sun, — you  revel  like 
the  lark  in  the  sunshine  and  bright  blue  heaven, 
and  all  is  a  delirious  dream  of  soul  and  sense,  — 
when  suddenly  a  friend  at  your  elbow  laughs 
aloud,  and  offers  you  a  piece  of  Bologna  sausage. 
As  in  real  life,  so  in  his  writings,  —  the  serious 
and  the  comic,  the  sublime  and  the  grotesque, 
the  pathetic  and  the  ludicrous,  are  mingled  to 
gether.  At  times  he  is  sententious,  energetic, 
simple  ;  then  again,  obscure  and  diffuse.  His 
thoughts  are  like  mummies  embalmed  in  spices, 
and  wrapped  about  with  curious  envelopments  ; 
but  within  these  the  thoughts  themselves  are 
kings.  At  times  glad,  beautiful  images,  airy 
forms,  move  by  you,  graceful,  harmonious  ;  — 
at  times  the  glaring,  wild-looking  fancies,  chained 
together  by  hyphens,  brackets,  and  dashes,  brave 
and  base,  high  and  low,  all  in  their  motley  dress 
es,  go  sweeping  down  the  dusty  page,  like  the 
galley-slaves  that  sweep  the  streets  of  Rome, 
where  you  may  chanc^fcto  see  the  nobleman  and 
the  peasant  manacled  together.'* 


40  HYPERION, 

Flemming  smiled  at  the  German's  warmtn, 
to  which  the  presence  of  the  lady,  and  the  Lau- 
henheimer  wine,  seemed  each  to  have  contrib 
uted  something,  and  then  said  :  — 

"Better  an  outlaw  than  not  free! — These 
are  his  own  words.  And  thus  he  changes  at 
his  will.  Like  the  God  Thor,  of  the  old  North 
ern  mythology,  he  now  holds  forth  the  seven 
bright  stars  in  the  bright  heaven  above  us,  and 
now  hides  himself  in  clouds,  and  pounds  away 
with  his  great  hammer." 

"  And  yet  this  is  not  affectation  in  him,"  re 
joined  the  German.  "It  is  his  nature,  it  is 
Jean  Paul.  And  the  figures  and  ornaments  of 
his  style,  wild,  fantastic,  and  ofttimes  startling, 
like  those  in  Gothic  cathedrals,  are  not  merely 
what  they  seem,  but  massive  coignes  and  but 
tresses,  which  support  the  fabric.  Remove  them, 
and  the  roof  and  walls  fall  in.  And  through 
these  gargoyles,  these  wild  faces,  these  images 
of  beasts  and  men  carved  upon  spouts  and  gut 
ters,  flow  out,  like  gathered  rain,  the  bright, 
abundant  thoughts,  that  have  fallen  from  heaven. 
And  all  he  does  is  done  with  a  kind  of  serious 
playfulness.  He  is  a  sea-monster,  disporting 
himself  on  the  broad  ocean  ;  his  very  sport  is 


A    ROMANCE.  41 

earnest ;  there  is  something  majestic  and  serious 
about  it.  In  every  thing  there  is  strength,  a 
rough  good-nature,  all  sunshine  overhead,  and 
underneath  the  heavy  moaning  of  the  sea.  Well 
may  he  be  called  'Jean  Paul,  the  Only-One.'  " 

With  such  discourse  the  hour  of  dinner  pass 
ed  ;  and  after  dinner  Flemming  went  to  the  ca 
thedral.  They  were  singing  vespers.  A  beadle, 
dressed  in  blue,  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  a  crim 
son  sash  and  collar,  was  strutting,  like  a  turkey, 
along  the  aisles.  This  important  gentleman 
conducted  Flemming  through  the  church,  and 
showed  him  the  choir,  with  its  heavy-sculp 
tured  stalls  of  oak,  and  the  beautiful  figures  in 
brown  stone  over  the  bishops'  tombs.  He 
then  led  him,  by  a  side-door,  into  the  old  and 
ruined  cloisters  of  St.  Willigis.  Through  the 
low  Gothic  arches  the  sunshine  streamed  upon 
the  pavement  of  tombstones,  whose  images  and 
inscriptions  are  mostly  effaced  by  the  footsteps 
of  many  generations.  There  stands  the  tomb  of 
Frauenlob,  the  Minnesinger.  His  face  is  sculp 
tured  on  an  entablature  in  the  wall ;  a  fine,  strong 
ly-marked,  and  serious  countenance.  Below  it 
is  a  bas-relief,  representing  the  poet's  funeral. 
He  is  carried  to  his  grave  by  ladies,  whose  praise 
he  sang,  and  thereby  won  the  name  of  Frauenlob. 


42  HYPERION, 

*'  This,  then,"  said  Fleraming,  "  is  the  grave, 
not  of  Praise-God  Bare-bones,  but  of  Praise-tbe- 
Ladies  Meissen,  who  wrote  songs  *  somewhat  ot 
lust,  and  somewhat  of  love.'  But  where  sleeps 
the  dust  of  his  rival  and  foe,  sweet  Master  Bar 
tholomew  Rainbow  ?  " 

He  meant  this  for  an  aside  ;  but  the  turkey- 
cock  picked  it  up  and  answered  :  — 

"  I  do  not  know.  He  did  not  belong  to  this 
parish. " 

I  will  not  prolong  this  journey,  for  I  am  weary 
and  way-worn,  and  would  fain  be  at  Heidelberg 
with  my  readers  and  my  hero.  It  was  already 
night  when  he  reached  the  Manheim  gate,  and 
drove  down  the  long  Hauptstrasse  so  slowly, 
that  it  seemed  to  him  endless.  The  shops  were 
lighted  on  each  side  of  the  street,  and  he  saw 
faces  at  the  windows  here  and  there,  and  figures 
passing  in  the  lamp-light,  visible  for  a  moment 
and  then  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness.  The 
thoughts  that  filled  his  mind  were  strange  ;  as  are 
always  the  thoughts  of  a  traveller  who  enters  for 
the  first  time  a  strange  city.  This  little  world 
had  been  going  on  for  centuries  before  he  came  ; 
and  would  go  on  for  centuries  after  he  was  gone. 
Of  all  the  thousands  who  inhabited  it  he  knew 


A    ROMANCE.  43 

nothing ;  and  what  knew  they,  or  thought,  of  the 
stranger,  who,  in  that  close  postchaise,  weary 
with  travel,  and  chilled  by  the  evening  wind,  was 
slowly  rumbling  over  the  paved  street  ?  Truly, 
this  world  can  go  on  without  us,  if  we  would  but 
think  so.  If  it  had  been  a  hearse  instead  of  a 
postchaise,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same  to 
the  people  of  Heidelberg,  —  though  by  no  means 
the  same  to  Paul  Flemming. 

But  at  the  farther  end  of  the  city,  near  the 
Castle  and  the  Carls-Thor,  one  warm  heart  was 
waiting  to  receive  him  ;  and  this  was  the  German 
heart  of  his  friend,  the  Baron  of  Hohenfels,  with 
whom  he  was  to  pass  the  winter  in  Heidelberg. 
No  sooner  had  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  iron- 
grated  gate,  and  the  postilion  blown  his  horn,  to 
announce  the  arrival  of  a  traveller,  than  the  Bar 
on  was  seen  among  the  servants  at  the  door  ; 
and,  a  few  moments  afterwards,  the  two  long- 
absent  friends  were  in  each  other's  arms,  and 
Flemming  received  a  kiss  upon  each  cheek,  and 
another  on  the  mouth,  as  the  pledge  and  seal 
of  the  German's  friendship.  They  held  each 
other  long  by  the  hand,  and  looked  into  each 
other's  face,  and  saw  themselves  in  each  other's 
eyes,  both  literally  and  figuratively  ;  literally,  inas- 


44  HYPERION, 

much  as  the  images  were  there  ;  and  figuratively, 
inasmuch  as  each  was  imagining  what  the  other 
thought  of  him,  after  the  lapse  of  some  years. 
In  friendly  hopes  and  questionings  and  answers, 
the  evening  glided  away  at  the  supper-table, 
where  many  more  things  were  discussed  than 
the  roasted  hare  and  the  Johannisberger ;  and 
they  sat  late  into  the  night,  conversing  of  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  and  delights  which  fill  the 
hearts  of  young  men  who  have  already  enjoyed 
and  suffered,  and  hoped  and  been  disappointed. 


A    ROMANCE.  45 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HEIDELBERG   AND    THE    BARON. 

HIGH  and  hoar  on  the  forehead  of  the  Jetten- 
biihl  stands  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg.  Behind 
it  rise  the  oak-crested  hills  of  the  Geissberg  and 
the  Kaiserstuhl ;  and  in  front,  from  the  wide 
terrace  of  masonry,  you  can  almost  throw  a  stone 
upon  the  roofs  of  the  town,  so  close  do  they  lie 
beneath.  Above  this  terrace  rises  the  broad 
front  of  the  chapel  of  Saint  Udalrich.  On  the 
left  stands  the  slender  octagon  tower  of  the 
horologe  ;  and  on  the  right,  a  huge  round  tower, 
battered  and  shattered  by  the  mace  of  war, 
shores  up  with  its  broad  shoulders  the  beautiful 
palace  and  garden-terrace  of  Elizabeth,  wife  of 
the  Count  Palatine  Frederick.  In  the  rear  are 
older  palaces  and  towers,  forming  a  vast,  irregular 
quadrangle  ;  —  Rodolph's  ancient  castle,  with  its 
Gothic  gloriette  and  fantastic  gables  ;  the  Giant's 


46  HYPERION, 

Tower,  guarding  the  drawbridge  over  the  moat , 
the  Rent  Tower,  with  the  linden-trees  growing 
on  its  summit ;  and  the  magnificent  Rittersaal 
of  Otho-Hemy,  Count  Palatine  of  the  Rhine 
and  Grand  Seneschal  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire. 
From  the  gardens  behind  the  castle,  you  pass 
under  the  archway  of  the  Giant's  Tower  into 
the  great  court-yard.  The  diverse  architecture 
of  different  ages  strikes  the  eye  ;  and  curious 
sculptures.  In  niches  on  the  wall  of  Saint  Udal- 
rich's  chapel  stand  rows  of  knights  in  armor, 
broken  and  dismembered  ;  and  on  the  front  of 
Otho's  Rittersaal,  the  heroes  of  Jewish  history 
and  classic  fable.  You  enter  the  open  and  deso 
late  chambers  of  the  ruin  ;  and  on  every  side  are 
medallions  and  family  arms  ;  the  Globe  of  the 
Empire  and  the  Golden  Fleece,  or  the  Eagle 
of  the  Caesars,  resting  on  the  escutcheons  of 
Bavaria  and  the  Palatinate.  Over  the  windows 
and  door-ways  and  chimney-pieces  are  sculp 
tures  and  mouldings  of  exquisite  workmanship  ; 
and  the  eye  is  bewildered  by  the  profusion  of 
caryatides,  and  arabesques,  and  rosettes,  and 
fan-like  flutings,  and  garlands  of  fruits  and  flow 
ers  and  acorns,  and  bullocks'  heads  with  draper 
ies  of  foliage,  and  muzzles  of  lions,  holding  rings 


A    ROMANCE.  47 

in  their  teeth.  The  cunning  hand  of  Art  was 
busy  for  six  centuries  in  raising  and  adorning 
these  walls  ;  the  mailed  hands  of  Time  and  War 
have  defaced  and  overthrown  them  in  less  than 
two.  Next  to  the  Alhambra  of  Granada,  the 
Castle  of  Heidelberg  is  the  most  magnificent  ruin 
of  the  Middle  Ages. 

In  the  valley  below  flows  the  rushing  stream 
of  the  Neckar.  Close  from  its  margin,  on  the 
opposite  side,  rises  the  Mountain  of  All-Saints, 
crowned  with  the  ruins  of  a  convent ;  and  up  the 
valley  stretches  the  mountain-curtain  of  the  Oden- 
wald.  So  close  and  many  are  the  hills  which 
eastward  shut  the  valley  in,  that  the  river  seems 
a  lake.  But  westward  it  opens  upon  the  broad 
plain  of  the  Rhine,  like  the  mouth  of  a  trumpet  ; 
and  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  is  at  times  the 
wintry  wind  through  this  narrow  mountain-pass. 
The  blue  Alsatian  hills  rise  beyond  ;  and,  on  a 
platform  or  strip  of  level  land,  between  the  Neck 
ar  and  the  mountains,  right  under  the  castle, 
stands  the  town  of  Heidelberg  ;  as  the  old  song 
says,  "  a  pleasant  town,  when  it  has  done  rain 
ing." 

Something  of  this  did  Paul  Flemming  behold, 
when  he  rose  the  next  morning  and  looked  from 


48  HYPERION, 

his  window.  It  was  a  warm,  vapory  morning, 
and  a  struggle  was  going  on  between  the  mist 
and  the  rising  sun.  The  sun  had  taken  the  hill 
tops,  but  the  mist  still  kept  possession  of  the 
valley  and  the  town.  The  steeple  of  the  great 
church  rose  through  a  dense  mass  of  snow-white 
clouds  ;  and  eastward,  on  the  hills,  the  dim  va 
pors  were  rolling  across  the  windows  of  the  ruined 
castle,  like  the  fiery  smoke  of  a  fierce  conflagra 
tion.  It  seemed  to  him  an  image  of  the  rising 
of  the  sun  of  Truth  on  a  benighted  world  ;  its 
light  streamed  through  the  ruins  of  centuries  ; 
and,  down  in  the  valley  of  Time,  the  cross  on 
the  Christian  church  caught  its  rays,  though  the 
priests  were  singing  in  mist  and  darkness  below. 

In  the  warm  breakfast-room  he  found  the 
Baron  waiting  for  him.  He  was  lying  upon  a 
sofa,  in  morning  gown  and  purple-velvet  slippers, 
both  with  flowers  upon  them.  He  had  a  guitar 
in  his  hand,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  at  the  same 
time  smoking,  playing,  and  humming  his  favorite 
song  from  G  oethe  :  — 

"  The  water  rushed,  the  water  swelled, 
A  fisher  sat  thereby." 

Flemming  could  hardly  refrain  from  laughing, 
at  the  sight  of  his  friend  ;  and  told  him  it  reminded 


A    ROMANCE.  49 

him  of  a  street-musician  he  once  saw  in  Aix-la- 
Chapelle,  who  was  playing  upon  six  instruments 
at  once  ;  having  a  helmet  with  bells  on  his  head, 
a  Pan's-reed  in  his  cravat,  a  fiddle  in  his  hand, 
a  triangle  on  his  knee,  cymbals  on  his  heels,  and 
on  his  back  a  bass-drum,  which  he  played  with 
his  elbows.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  Baron  of 
Hohenfels  was  rather  a  miscellaneous  youth, 
rather  a  universal  genius.  He  pursued  all  things 
with  eagerness,  but  for  a  short  time  only  ;  music, 
poetry,  painting,  pleasure,  even  the  study  of  the 
Pandects.  His  feelings  were  keenly  alive  to 
the  enjoyment  of  life.  His  great  defect  was, 
that  he  was  too  much  in  love  with  human  nature. 
But  by  the  power  of  imagination,  in  him,  the 
oearded  goat  was  changed  to  a  bright  Capricor- 
nus  ;  —  no  longer  an  animal  on  earth,  but  a  con 
stellation  in  heaven.  An  easy  and  indolent  dis 
position  made  him  gentle  and  childlike  in  his 
manners  ;  and,  in  short,  the  beauty  of  his  charac 
ter,  like  that  of  the  precious  opal,  was  owing  to 
a  defect  in  its  organization.  His  person  was  tall 
and  slightly  built  ;  his  hair  light  ;  and  his  eyes 
clue,  and  as  beautiful  as  those  of  a  girl.  In  the 
tones  of  his  voice  there  was  something  indescri 
bably  gentle  and  winning  ;  and  he  spoke  the  Ger- 
4 


52  HYPERION, 

political  motives,  he  was  equally  hateful  to  certain 
petty  German  tyrants,  who,  in  order  to  effect  his 
ruin,  accused  him  of  heresy.  But  his  brother 
Louis  would  not  deliver  him  up  to  their  fury, 
and  they  resolved  to  effect  by  stratagem  what 
they  could  not  by  intrigue.  Accordingly,  Leo- 
nore  von  Luzelstein,  disguised  as  the  Virgin  Mary, 
and  the  father  confessor  of  the  Elector,  in  the 
costume  of  Satan,  made  their  appearance  in  the 
Elector's  bed-chamber  at  midnight,  and  fright 
ened  him  so  horribly,  that  he  consented  to  deliv 
er  up  his  brother  into  the  hands  of  two  Black 
Knights,  who  pretended  to  be  ambassadors  from 
the  Vehm-Gericht.  They  proceeded  together  to 
Frederick's  chamber;  where,  luckily,  old  Gem- 
mingen,  a  brave  soldier,  kept  guard  behind  the 
arras.  The  monk  went  foremost  in  his  Satanic 
garb  ;  but,  no  sooner  had  he  set  foot  in  the  prince's 
bed-chamber,  than  the  brave  Gemmingen  drew 
his  sword,  and  said  quaintly,  4  Die,  wretch  ! ' 
and  so  he  died.  The  rest  took  to  their  heels, 
and  were  heard  of  no  more.  And  now  the  souls 
of  Leonore  and  the  monk  haunt  the  scene  of 
their  midnight  crime.  You  will  find  the  story  in 
the  Frenchman's  book,  worked  up  with  a  kind 
of  red-morocco  and  burnt-cork  sublimity,  and 


A    ROMANCE.  53 

great  melo-dramatic  clanking  of  chains,  and 
hooting  of  owls,  and  other  fallow  deer  !  " 

"  After  breakfast,"  said  Flemming,  "  we  will 
go  up  to  the  castle.  I  mint  get  acquainted  with 
this  mirror  of  owls,  this  modern  Till  Eulenspie- 
gel.  See  what  a  glorious  morning  we  have  ! 
It  is  truly  a  wondrous  winter  !  what  summer  sun 
shine  !  what  soft  Venetian  fogs  !  How  the  wan 
ton,  treacherous  air  coquets  with  the  old  gray- 
beard  trees !  Such  weather  makes  the  grass 
and  our  beards  grow  apace  !  But  we  have  an 
old  saying  in  English,  that  winter  never  rots  in 
the  sky.  So  he  will  come  down  at  last  in  his 
old-fashioned  mealy  coat.  We  shall  have  snow 
in  spring  ;  and  the  blossoms  will  be  all  snow- 
flakes.  And  afterwards  a  summer,  which  will 
be  no  summer,  but,  as  Jean  Paul  says,  only  a 
winter  painted  green.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Unless  I  am  much  deceived  in  the  climate 
of  Heidelberg,"  replied  the  Baron,  "we  shall 
not  have  to  wait  long  for  snow.  We  have  sud 
den  changes  here  ;  and  I  should  not  marvel  much, 
if  it  snowed  before  night." 

"  The  greater  reason  for  making  good  use 
of  the  morning  sunshine,  then.  Let  us  hasten 
to  the  castle,  after  which  my  heart  yearns." 


54  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LIVES    OF    SCHOLARS. 

THE  forebodings  of  the  Baron  proved  true 
In  the  afternoon  the  weather  changed.  The 
western  wind  began  to  blow,  and  drew  a  cloud- 
veil  over  the  face  of  heaven,  as  a  breath  does 
over  the  human  face  in  a  mirror.  Soon  the 
snow  began  to  fall.  Athwart  the  distant  land 
scape  it  swept  like  a  white  mist.  The  storm-wind 
came  from  the  Alsatian  hills,  and  struck  the 
dense  clouds  aslant  through  the  air.  And  ever 
faster  fell  the  snow,  a  roaring  torrent  from  those 
mountainous  clouds.  The  setting  sun  glared 
wildly  from  the  summit  of  the  hills,  and  sank 
like  a  burning  ship  at  sea,  wrecked  in  the  tem 
pest.  Thus  the  evening  set  in ;  and  winter 
stood  at  the  gate  wagging  his  white  and  shaggy 
beard,  like  an  old  harper  chanting  an  old  rhyme  : 
—  "  How  cold  it  is  !  how  cold  it  is  ! " 

"  I  like  such  a  storm  as  this,"  said  Flem- 


A    ROMANCE.  55 

ning,  who  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out 
into  the  tempest  and  the  gathering  darkness. 
"  The  silent  falling  of  snow  is  to  me  one  of  the 
most  solemn  things  in  nature.  The  fall  of  au 
tumnal  leaves  does  not  so  much  affect  me.  But 
the  driving  storm  is  grand.  It  startles  me  ;  it 
awakens  me.  It  is  wild  and  woful,  like  my  own 
soul.  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  sea  ;  how 
the  waves  run  and  toss  their  arms  about,  —  and 
the  wind  plays  on  those  great  sonorous  harps, 
the  shrouds  and  masts  of  ships.  Winter  is  here 
in  earnest  !  How  the  old  churl  whistles  and 
threshes  the  snow  !  Sleet  and  rain  are  falling 
too.  Already  the  trees  are  bearded  with  icicles  ; 
and  the  two  broad  branches  of  yonder  pine  look 
like  the  white  mustache  of  some  old  German 
baron." 

"  And  to-morrow  it  will  look  more  wintry 
still,"  said  his  friend.  "  We  shall  wake  up  and 
find  that  the  frost-spirit  has  been  at  work  all 
night  building  Gothic  cathedrals  on  our  windows, 
just  as  the  Devil  built  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne. 
So  draw  the  curtains,  and  come,  sit  here  by  the 
warm  fire." 

"  And  now,"  said  Flemming,  having  done  as 
his  friend  desired,  "  tell  me  something  of  Hei- 


56  HYPERION, 

delberg  and  its  University.  I  suppose  we  shall 
lead  about  a*  solitary  and  studious  a  life  here  as 
we  did  of  yore  in  little  Gottingen,  with  nothing 
to  amuse  us,  save  our  own  day-dreams." 

"  Pretty  much  so,"  replied  the  Baron  ;  "  which 
cannot  fail  to  please  you,  since  you  are  in  pur 
suit  of  tranquillity.  As  to  the  University,  it 
is,  as  you  know,  one  of  the  oldest  in  Germany. 
It  was  founded  in  the  fourteenth  century  by  the 
Count  Palatine  Ruprecht,  and  had  in  the  first 
year  more  than  five  hundred  students,  all  busily 
committing  to  memory,  after  the  old  scholastic 
wise,  the  rules  of  grammar  versified  by  Alexan 
der  de  Villa  Dei,  and  the  ^extracts  made  by 
Peter  the  Spaniard  from  Michel  Psellus's  Synop 
sis  of  Aristotle's  Organon,  and  the  Categories, 
with  Porphyry's  Commentaries.  Truly,  I  do 
not  much  wonder,  that  Erigena  Scotus  should 
have  been  put  to  death  by  his  scholars  with  their 
penknives.  They  must  have  been  pushed  to 
the  very  verge  of  despair." 

"  What  a  strange  picture  a  university  presents 
to  the  imagination  !  The  lives  of  scholars  in 
their  cloistered  stillness  ;  —  literary  men  of  re 
tired  habits,  and  professors  who  study  sixteen 
hours  a  day,  and  never  see  the  world  but  on  a 


A    ROMANCE.  57 

Sunday.  Nature  has,  no  doubt,  for  some  wise 
purpose,  placed  in  their  hearts  this  love  of  litera 
ry  labor  and  seclusion.  Otherwise,  who  would 
feed  the  undying  lamp  of  thought  ?  But  for 
such  men  as  these,  a  blast  of  wind  through  the 
chinks  and  crannies  of  this  old  world,  or  the 
flapping  of  a  conqueror's  banner,  would  blow  il 
out  for  ever.  The  light  of  the  soul  is  easily 
extinguished.  And  whenever  I  reflect  upon 
these  things,  I  become  aware  of  the  great  impor 
tance,  in  a  nation's  history,  of  the  individual 
fame  of  scholars  and  literary  men.  I  fear  that 
it  is  far  greater  than  the  world  is  willing  to  ac 
knowledge ;  or,  perhaps  I  should  say,  than  the 
world  has  thought  of  acknowledging.  Blot  out 
from  England's  history  the  names  of  Chaucer, 
Shakspeare,  Spenser,  and  Milton  only,  and  how 
much  of  her  glory  would  you  blot  out  with  them ! 
Take  from  Italy  such  names  as  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Michel  Angelo,  and  Raphael,  and 
how  much  would  be  wanting  to  the  completeness 
of  her  glory  !  How  would  the  history  of  Spain 
look,  if  the  leaves  were  torn  out  on  which  are 
written  the  names  of  Cervantes,  Lope  de  Vega, 
and  Calderon  ?  What  would  be  the  fame  of 
Portugal,  without  her  Camoens ;  of  France, 


58  HYPLRION, 

without  her  Racine,  and  Rabelais,  and  Voltaire  ; 
or  Germany,  without  her  Martin  Luther,  her 
Goethe,  and  her  Schiller? — Nay,  what  were  the 
nations  of  old,  without  their  philosophers,  poets, 
and  historians  ?  Tell  me,  do  not  these  men,  in 
all  ages  and  in  all  places,  emblazon  with  bright 
colors  the  armorial  bearings  of  their  country  ? 
Yes,  and  far  more  than  this  ;  for  in  all  ages  and 
in  all  places  they  give  humanity  assurance  of  its 
greatness,  and  say,  — '  Call  not  this  time  or  peo 
ple  wholly  barbarous  ;  for  thus  much,  even  then 
and  there,  could  the  human  mind  achieve  ! '  But 
the  boisterous  world  has  hardly  thought  of  ac 
knowledging  all  this.  Therein  it  has  shown 
itself  somewhat  ungrateful.  Else,  whence  the 
great  reproach,  the  general  scorn,  the  loud  de 
rision,  with  which,  to  take  a  familiar  example, 
the  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  are  regarded  ? 
That  they  slept  their  lives  away  is  most  untrue. 
For  in  an  age  when  books  were  few,  —  so  few, 
so  precious,  that  they  were  often  chained  to 
their  oaken  shelves  with  iron  chains,  like  galley- 
slaves  to  their  benches,  —  these  men,  with  their 
laborious  hands,  copied  upon  parchment  all  the 
lore  and  wisdom  of  the  past,  and  transmitted  it 
to  us.  Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that, 


A    ROMANCE.  59 

but  for  these  monks,  not  one  line  of  the  classics 
would  have  reached  our  day.  Surely,  then, 
we  can  pardon  something  to  those  superstitious 
ages,  perhaps  even  the  mysticism  of  the  scholas 
tic  philosophy  ;  since,  after  all,  we  can  find  no 
harm  in  it,  only  the  mistaking  of  the  possible  for 
the  real,  and  the  high  aspirings  of  the  human 
mind  after  a  long-sought  and  unknown  somewhat. 
I  think  the  name  of  Martin  Luther,  the  monk  of 
Wittemberg,  alone  sufficient  to  redeem  all  monk 
hood  from  the  reproach  of  laziness.  If  this  will 
not,  perhaps  the  vast  folios  of  Thomas  Aquinas 
will  ;  —  or  the  countless  manuscripts,  still  treas 
ured  in  old  libraries,  whose  yellow  and  wrinkled 
pages  remind  one  of  the  hands  that  wrote  them, 
and  the  faces  that  once  bent  over  them." 

"  An  eloquent  homily,"  said  the  Baron,  laugh 
ing  ;  "  a  most  touching  appeal  in  behalf  of  suffer 
ing  humanity  !  For  my  part,  I  am  no  friend 
of  this  entire  seclusion  from  the  world.  It  has 
a  very  injurious  effect  on  the  mind  of  a  scholar. 
The  Chinese  proverb  is  true  ;  a  single  conversa 
tion  across  the  table  with  a  wise  man  is  better 
than  ten  years'  mere  study  of  books.  I  have 
known  some  of  these  literary  men  who  thus 
shut  themselves  up  from  the  world.  Their 


60  HYPERION, 

minds  never  come  in  contact  with  those  of  their 
fellow-men.  They  read  little.  They  think 
much.  They  are  mere  dreamers.  They  know 
not  what  is  new  nor  what  is  old.  They  often 
strike  upon  trains  of  thought,  which  stand  writ 
ten  in  good  authors  some  century  or  so  back, 
and  are  even  current  in  the  mouths  of  men  around 
them.  But  they  know  it  not  ;  and  imagine  they 
are  bringing  forward  something  very  original, 
when  they  publish  their  thoughts." 

"  It  reminds  me,"  replied  Flemming,  "  of 
what  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  Goldsmith,  when  he 
proposed  to  travel  abroad  in  order  to  bring  home 
improvements  :  — £  He  will  bring  home  a  wheel 
barrow,  and  call  that  an  improvement.'  It  is 
unfortunately  the  same  with  some  of  these  schol 
ars." 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  the  Baron, 
u  that,  in  solitude,  some  fixed  idea  will  often 
take  root  in  the  mind,  and  grow  till  it  overshadow 
all  one's  thoughts.  To  this  must  all  opinions 
come  ;  no  thought  can  enter  there,  which  shall 
not  be  wedded  to  the  fixed  idea.  There  it  re 
mains,  and  grows.  It  is  like  the  watchman's 
wife,  in  the  Tower  of  Waiblingen,  who  grew  to 
such  a  size,  that  she  could  not  get  down  the 


A    ROMANCE.  61 

narrow  staircase  ;  and  when  her  husband  died, 
his  successor  was  forced  to  marry  the  fat  widow 
in  the  Tower." 

"  I  remember  an  old  English  comedy,"  said 
Flemming,  laughing,  "  in  which  a  scholar  is  de 
scribed  as  '  a  creature  that  can  strike  fire  in  the 
morning  at  his  tinder-box,  —  put  on  a  pair  of 
lined  slippers,  —  sit  ruminating  till  dinner,  and 
then  go  to  his  meat  when  the  bell  rings  ;  —  one 
that  hath  a  peculiar  gift  in  a  cough,  and  a  license 
to  spit  ;  —  or,  if  you  will  have  him  defined  by 
negatives,  he  is  one  that  cannot  make  a  good 
leg,  —  one  that  cannot  eat  a  mess  of  broth 
cleanly.'  What  think  you  of  that  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  as  people  are  always  repre 
sented  in  English  comedy,"  said  the  Baron. 
"  The  portrait  is  overcharged,  —  caricatured." 

"And  yet,"  continued  Flemming,  "no  longer 
ago  than  yesterday,  in  the  preface  of  a  work  by 
a  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the  University  of 
Halle  I  read  this  passage." 

He  opened  a  book  and  read. 

"  Here  in  Halle,  where  we  have  no  public 
garden  and  no  Tivoli,  no  London  Exchange, 
no  Paris  Chamber  of  Deputies,  no  Berlin  nor 
Vienna  theatres,  no  Strasburg  Minster  nor 


62  HYPERION, 

Salzburg  Alps,  no  Grecian  ruins  nor  fantastic 
Catholicism,  —  in  fine,  nothing,  which,  after  one's 
daily  task  is  finished,  can  divert  and  refresh 
him,  without  his  knowing  or  caring  how,  —  I 
consider  the  sight  of  a  proof-sheet  quite  as  de 
lightful  as  a  walk  in  the  Prater  of  Vienna.  I  fill 
my  pipe  very  quietly,  take  out  my  inkstand  and 
pens,  seat  myself  in  the  corner  of  my  sofa,  read, 
correct,  and  now  for  the  first  time  really  set 
ahout  thinking  what  I  have  written.  To  see 
this  origin  of  a  book,  this  metamorphosis  of  man 
uscript  into  print,  is  a  delight  to  which  I  give 
myself  up  entirely.  Look  you,  —  this  melancholy 
pleasure,  which  would  have  furnished  the  depart 
ed  Voss  with  worthy  matter  for  more  than  one 
blessed  Idyl  (the  more  so,  as  on  such  occa 
sions  I  am  generally  arrayed  in  a  morning  gown, 
though,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  not  a  calamanco  one, 
with  great  flowers) ,  —  this  melancholy  pleasure 
has  already  grown  here  in  Halle  to  a  sweet, 
pedantic  habit.  Since  I  began  my  hermit's 
life  here,  I  have  been  printing  ;  and  so  long  as 
I  remain  here,  I  shall  keep  on  printing.  In  all 
probability,  I  shall  die  with  a  proof-sheet  in  my 
hand." 

"  This,"    said  Flemming,   closing   the   book, 


A    ROMANCE.  63 

"  is  no  caricature  by  a  writer  of  comedy,  but 
a  portrait  by  a  man's  own  hand.  We  can  see 
by  it  how  easily,  under  certain  circumstances, 
one  may  glide  into  habits  of  seclusion,  and  in 
a  kind  of  undress,  slipshod  hardihood,  with  a 
pipe  and  a  proof-sheet,  defy  the  world.  Into 
this  state  scholars  have  too  often  fallen  ;  thus 
giving  some  ground  for  the  prevalent  opinion, 
that  scholarship  and  rusticity  are  inseparable. 
To  me,  I  confess,  it  is  painful  to  see  the  scholar 
and  the  world  assume  so  often  a  hostile  attitude, 
and  set  each  other  at  defiance.  Surely,  it  is  a 
characteristic  trait  of  a  great  and  liberal  mind, 
that  it  recognizes  humanity  in  all  its  forms  and 
conditions.  I  am  a  student ;  —  and  always, 
when  I  sit  alone  at  night,  I  recognize  the  divinity 
of  the  student,  as  she  reveals  herself  to  me  in 
the  flame  of  the  midnight  lamp.  But,  because 
solitude  and  books  are  not  unpleasant  to  me, — 
nay,  wished-for,  —  sought  after,  —  shall  I  say 
to  my  brother,  '  Thou  fool  !  '  —  Shall  I  take  the 
world  by  the  beard,  and  say,  '  Thou  art  old,  and 
mad  !  '  —  Shall  I  look  society  in  the  face,  and 
say,  '  Thou  art  heartless  ! '  —  Heartless  !  Be 
ware  of  that  word  !  The  good  Jean  Paul  says 
very  wisely,  that  '  Life  in  every  shape  should 


64  HYPERION, 

be  precious  to  us,  for  the  same  reason  that  the 
Turks  carefully  collect  every  scrap  of  paper  that 
comes  in  their  way,  because  the  name  of  God 
may  be  written  upon  it.'  Nothing  is  more  true 
than  this,  yet  nothing  more  neglected  !  " 

"If  it  be  painful  to  see  this  misunderstanding 
between  scholars  and  the  world, "said  the  Baron, 
"  I  think  it  is  still  more  painful  to  see  the  pri 
vate  sufferings  of  authors  by  profession.  How 
many  have  languished  in  poverty,  how  many 
died  broken-hearted,  how  many  gone  mad  with 
over-excitement  and  disappointed  hopes  !  How 
instructive  and  painfully  interesting  are  their 
lives  !  with  so  many  weaknesses,  —  so  much  to 
pardon,  —  so  much  to  pity,  —  so  much  to  ad 
mire  !  I  think  he  was  not  so  far  out  of  the  way, 
who  said,  that,  next  to  the  Newgate  Calendar, 
the  Biography  of  Authors  is  the  most  sickening 
chapter  in  the  history  of  man." 

"It  is  indeed  enough  to  make  one's  heart 
ache  !  "  interrupted  Flemming.  "  Only  think 
of  Johnson  and  Savage,  rambling  about  the 
streets  of  London  at  midnight,  without  a  place 
to  sleep  in  ;  Otway  starved  to  death  ;  Collins 
mad,  and  howling  like  a  dog,  through  the  aisles 
of  Chichester  Cathedral,  at  the  sound  of  church 


A    ROMANCE.  65 

music  !  and  Goldsmith,  strutting  up  Fleet  Street 
in  his  peach-blossom  coat,  to  knock  a  bookseller 
over  the  pate  with  one  of  his  own  volumes  ;  and 
then,  in  his  poverty,  about  to  marry  his  landlady 
in  Green  Arbour  Court." 

"  A  life  of  sorrow  and  privation,  a  hard  life, 
indeed,  do  these  poor  devil  authors  have  of  it," 
replied  the  Baron  ;  "  and  then  at  last  must  get 
them  to  the  workhouse,  or  creep  away  into 
some  hospital  to  die." 

"  After  all,"  said  Flemming,  with  a  sigh,  "  pov 
erty  is  not  a  crime." 

"  But  something  worse,"  interrupted  the  Bar 
on  ;  "as  Dufresny  said,  when  he  married  his 
laundress,  because  he  could  not  pay  her  bill 
He  was  the  author,  as  you  know,  of  the  opera 
of  Lot ;  at  whose  representation  the  great  pun 
was  made ;  —  I  say  the  great  pun,  as  we  say 
the  great  Tun  of  Heidelberg.  As  one  of  the  per 
formers  was  singing  the  line,  '  L'amour  a  vaincu 
Loi/i,'  (vingt  culottes,)  a  voice  from  the  pit 
cried  out,  '  Qu'tV  en  donne  une  a  Vauteur  ! '  " 

Flemming  laughed  at  the  unseasonable  jest ; 
and  then,  after  a  short  pause,  continued  :  — 

"  And  yet,  if  you  look  closely  at  the  causes 
of  these   calamities  of  authors,  you  will  find  that 
5 


66  HYPERION, 

many  of  them  spring  from  false  and  exaggerated 
ideas  of  poetry  and  the  poetic  character  ;  and 
from  disdain  of  common  sense,  upon  which  alJ 
character,  worth  having,  is  founded.  This  comes 
from  keeping  aloof  from  the  world,  apart  from 
our  fellow-men  ;  disdainful  of  society,  as  frivo 
lous.  By  too  much  sitting  still  the  body  becomes 
unhealthy  ;  and  soon  the  mind.  This  is  nature's 
law.  She  will  never  see  her  children  wronged. 
If  the  mind,  which  rules  the  body,  ever  forgets 
itself  so  far  as  to  trample  upon  its  slave,  the 
slave  is  never  generous  enough  to  forgive  the 
injury ;  but  will  rise  and  smite  its  oppressor 
Thus  has  many  a  monarch  mind  been  dethroned." 
"  After  all,"  said  the  Baron,  "  wre  must  par 
don  much  to  men  of  genius.  A  delicate  organ 
ization  renders  them  keenly  susceptible  to  pain 
and  pleasure.  And  then  they  idealize  every 
thing ;  and,  in  the  moonlight  of  fancy,  even  the 
deformity  of  vice  seems  beautiful." 

"  And  this  you  think  should  be  forgiven  ?  " 
"  At  all  events,  it  is  forgiven.  The  world 
loves  a  spice  of  wickedness.  Talk  as  you  will 
about  principle,  impulse  is  more  attractive,  even 
when  it  goes  too  far.  The  passions  of  youth, 
like  unhooded  hawks,  fly  high,  with  musical 


A    ROMANCE.  67 

bells  upon  their  jesses  ;  and  we  forget  the  cruelty 
of  the  sport  in  the  dauntless  bearing  of  the  gal 
lant  bird." 

"  And  thus  do  the  world  and  society  corrupt 
the  scholar  !  "  exclaimed  Flemming. 

Here  the  Baron  rang,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of 
Prince  Metternich.  He  then  very  slowly  filled 
his  pipe,  and  began  to  smoke.  Flemming  was 
lost  in  a  day-dream. 


66  HYPERION, 

many  of  them  spring  from  false  and  exaggerated 
ideas  of  poetry  and  the  poetic  character  ;  and 
from  disdain  of  common  sense,  upon  which  all 
character,  worth  having,  is  founded.  This  comes 
from  keeping  aloof  from  the  world,  apart  from 
our  fellow-men  ;  disdainful  of  society,  as  frivo 
lous.  By  too  much  sitting  still  the  body  becomes 
unhealthy  ;  and  soon  the  mind.  This  is  nature's 
law.  She  will  never  see  her  children  wronged. 
If  the  mind,  which  rules  the  body,  ever  forgets 
itself  so  far  as  to  trample  upon  its  slave,  the 
slave  is  never  generous  enough  to  forgive  the 
injury  ;  but  will  rise  and  smite  its  oppressor 
Thus  has  many  a  monarch  mind  been  dethroned." 
"  After  all,"  said  the  Baron,  "  we  must  par 
don  much  to  men  of  genius.  A  delicate  organ 
ization  renders  them  keenly  susceptible  to  pain 
and  pleasure.  And  then  they  idealize  every 
thing ;  and,  in  the  moonlight  of  fancy,  even  the 
deformity  of  vice  seems  beautiful." 

"  And  this  you  think  should  be  forgiven  ?  " 
"  At  all  events,  it  is  forgiven.  The  world 
loves  a  spice  of  wickedness.  Talk  as  you  will 
about  principle,  impulse  is  more  attractive,  even 
when  it  goes  too  far.  The  passions  of  youth, 
like  unhooded  hawks,  fly  high,  with  musical 


A    ROMANCE.  67 

bells  upon  their  jesses  ;  and  we  forget  the  cruelty 
of  the  sport  in  the  dauntless  bearing  of  the  gal 
lant  bird." 

"  And  thus  do  the  world  and  society  corrupt 
the  scholar  !  "  exclaimed  Flemming. 

Here  the  Baron  rang,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of 
Prince  Metternich.  He  then  very  slowly  filled 
his  pipe,  and  began  to  smoke.  Flemming  was 
lost  in  a  day-dream. 


HYPERION. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LITERARY    FAME. 

TIME  has  a  Doomsday-Book,  upon  whose 
pages  he  is  continually  recording  illustrious  names 
But,  as  often  as  a  new  name  is  written  there,  an 
old  one  disappears.  Only  a  few  stand  in  illumi 
nated  characters,  never  to  be  effaced.  These 
are  the  high  nobility  of  Nature,  —  Lords  of  the 
Public  Domain  of  Thought.  Posterity  shall 
never  question  their  titles.  But  those,  whose 
fame  lives  only  in  the  indiscreet  opinion  of  un 
wise  men,  must  soon  be  as  well  forgotten  as  if 
they  had  never  been.  To  this  great  oblivion 
must  most  men  com  .  It  is  better,  therefore, 
that  they  should  soon  make  up  their  minds  to 
this  ;  well  knowing,  that,  as  their  bodies  must 
ere  long  be  resolved  into  dust  again,  and  their 
graves  tell  no  tales  of  them  ;  so  must  their  names 
likewise  be  utterly  forgotten,  and  their  most 


A    ROMANCE.  69 

cherished  thoughts,  purposes,  and  opinions  have 
no  longer  an  individual  being  among  men,  but  be 
resolved  and  incorporated  into  the  universe  of 
thought.  If,  then,  the  imagination  can  trace  the 
noble  dust  of  heroes,  till  we  find  it  stopping  a 
beer-barrel,  and  know  that 

"  Imperial  Csesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
May  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away  " ; 

not  less  can  it  trace  the  noble  thoughts  of  great 
men,  till  it  finds  them  mouldered  into  the  common 
dust  of  conversation,  and  used  to  stop  men's 
mouths,  and  patch  up  theories,  to  keep  out  the 
flaws  of  opinion.  Such,  for  example,  are  all 
popular  adages  and  wise  proverbs,  which  are 
now  resolved  into  the  common  mass  of  thought  ; 
their  authors  forgotten,  and  having  no  more  an 
individual  being  among  men. 

It  is  better,  therefore,  that  men  should  soon 
make  up  their  minds  to  be  forgotten,  and  look 
about  them,  or  within  them,  for  some  higher  mo 
tive,  in  what  they  do,  than  the  approbation  of 
men,  which  is  Fame  ;  namely,  their  duty  ;  that 
they  should  be  constantly  and  quietly  at  work, 
each  in  his  sphere,  regardless  of  effects,  and 
leaving  their  fame  to  take  care  of  itself.  Diffi 
cult  must  this  indeed  be,  in  our  imperfection  ; 


70  HVPERION, 

impossible,  perhaps,  to  achieve  it  wholly.  Yet 
the  resolute,  the  indomitable  will  of  man  can 
achieve  much,  —  at  times,  even  this  victory  over 
himself ;  being  persuaded  that  fame  comes  only 
when  deserved,  and  then  is  as  inevitable  as  des 
tiny,  for  it  is  destiny. 

It  has  become  a  common  saying,  that  men 
of  genius  are  always  in  advance  of  their  age  ; 
which  is  true.  There  is  something  equally  true, 
yet  not  so  common  ;  namely,  that,  of  these  men 
of  genius,  the  best  and  bravest  are  in  advance 
not  only  of  their  own  age,  but  of  every  age. 
As  the  German  prose-poet  says,  every  possible 
future  is  behind  them.  We  cannot  suppose  that 
a  period  of  time  will  ever  arrive,  when  the  world, 
or  any  considerable  portion  of  it,  shall  have  come 
up  abreast  with  these  great  minds,  so  as  fully  to 
comprehend  them. 

And,  O,  how  majestically  they  walk  in  his 
tory  ;  some  like  the  sun,  "  with  all  his  travel- 
elling  glories  round  him  "  ;  others  wrapped  in 
gloom,  yet  glorious  as  a  night  with  stars ! 
Through  the  else  silent  darkness  of  the  past, 
the  spirit  hears  their  slow  and  solemn  footsteps. 
Onward  they  pass,  like  those  hoary  elders  seen 
in  the  sublime  vision  of  an  earthly  paradise, 


A    ROMANCE  71 

attendant  angels  bearing  golden  lights  before 
them,  and,  above  and  behind,  the  whole  air 
painted  with  seven  listed  colors,  as  from  the  trail 
of  pencils  ! 

And  yet,  on  earth,  these  men  were  not  hap 
py, — not  all  happy,  in  the  outward  circumstance 
of  their  lives.  They  were  in  want,  and  in  pain, 
and  familiar  with  prison-bars,  and  the  damp, 
weeping  walls  of  dungeons  !  O,  I  have  looked 
with  wonder  upon  those,  who,  in  sorrow  and 
privation,  and  bodily  discomfort,  and  sickness, 
which  is  the  shadow  of  death,  have  worked  right 
on  to  the  accomplishment  of  their  great  purpos 
es  ;  toiling  much,  enduring  much,  fulfilling 
much  ;  —  and  then,  with  shattered  nerves,  and 
sinews  all  unstrung,  have  laid  themselves  down 
in  the  grave,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  death,  —  and 
the  world  talks  of  them,  while  they  sleep  ! 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  all  their  sufferings 
had  but  sanctified  them  ;  as  if  the  death-angel, 
in  passing,  had  touched  them  with  the  hem  of 
his  garment,  and  made  them  holy  ;  as  if  the 
hand  of  disease  had  been  stretched  out  over 
them  only  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon 
their  souls  !  And  as  in  the  sun's  eclipse  we  can 
behold  the  great  stars  shining  in  the  heavens, 


72  HYPERION, 

so  in  this  life-eclipse  have  these  men  beheld  the 
lights  of  the  great  eternity,  burning  solemnly  and 
forever  ! 

This  was  Flemming's  reverie.  It  was  bro 
ken  by  the  voice  of  the  Baron,  suddenly  exclaim 
ing  :— 

"  An  angel  is  flying  over  the  house  !  —  Here, 
in  this  goblet,  fragrant  as  the  honey  of  Hymettus, 
fragrant  as  the  wild  flowers  in  the  Angel's  Mead 
ow,  I  drink  to  the  divinity  of  thy  dreams." 

"  This  is  all  sunshine,"  said  Flemming,  as  he 
drank.  u  The  wine  of  the  Prince,  and  the 
Prince  of  wines.  By  the  way,  did  you  ever 
read  that  brilliant  Italian  dithyrambic,  Redi's 
Bacchus  in  Tuscany  ?  an  ode  which  seems  to 
have  been  poured  out  of  the  author's  soul,  as 
from  a  golden  pitcher, 

•  Filled  with  the  wine 
Of  the  vine 
Benign, 
That  flames  so  red  in  Sansovine.' 

He  calls  the  Montepulciano  the  king  of  all  wines." 
"Prince  Metternich,"  said  the  Baron,  "is 
greater  than  any  king  in  Italy  ;  and  I  wonder 
that  this  precious  wine  has  never  inspired  a  Ger 
man  poet  to  write  a  Bacchus  on  the  Rhine. 


A    ROMANCE.  73 

Many  little  songs  we  have  on  this  theme,  but 
none  very  extraordinary.  The  best  are  Max 
Schenkendorf's  Song  of  the  Rhine,  and  the 
Song  of  Rhine  Wine,  by  Claudius,  a  poet  who 
never  drank  Rhenish  without  sugar.  We  will 
drink  for  him  a  blessing  on  the  Rhine." 

And  again  the  crystal  lips  of  the  goblets  kissed 
each  other,  with  a  musical  chime,  as  of  evening 
bells  at  vintage-time  from  the  villages  on  the 
Rhine.  Of  a  truth,  I  do  not  much  wonder 
that  the  German  poet  Schiller  loved  to  write 
by  candle-light  with  a  bottle  of  Rhine-wine  upon 
the  table.  Nor  do  I  wonder  at  the  worthy 
schoolmaster,  Roger  Ascham,  when  he  says,  in 
one  of  his  letters  from  Germany  to  Mr.  John 
Raven,  of  John's  College  :  "  Tell  Mr.  Maden 
I  will  drink  with  him  now  a  carouse  of  wine  ; 
and  would  to  God  he  had  a  vessel  of  Rhenish 
wine ;  and  perchance,  when  I  come  to  Cam 
bridge,  I  will  so  provide  here,  that  every  year  I 
will  have  a  little  piece  of  Rhenish  wine."  Nor, 
in  fine,  do  I  wonder  at  the  German  emperor 
of  whom  he  speaks  in  another  letter  to  the  same 
John  Raven,  and  says,  "  The  emperor  drank 
the  best  that  I  ever  saw  ;  he  had  his  head  in 
the  glass  five  times  as  long  as  any  of  us,  and 


/4  HYPERION, 

never  drank  less  than  a  good  quart  at  once  01 
Rhenish  wine." 

"  But  to  resume  our  old  theme  of  scholars 
and  their  whereabout,"  said  the  Baron,  with  an 
unusual  glow,  caught,  no  doubt,  from  the  golden 
sunshine,  imprisoned,  like  the  student  Anselmus, 
in  the  glass  bottle  ;  "  where  should  the  scholar 
live  ?  In  solitude,  or  in  society  ?  in  the  green 
stillness  of  the  country,  where  he  can  hear  the 
heart  of  Nature  beat ;  or  in  the  dark,  gray  town, 
where  he  can  hear  and  feel  the  throbbing  heart 
of  man  ?  I  will  make  answer  for  him,  and  say, 
in  the  dark,  gray  town.  O,  they  do  greatly 
err,  who  think  that  the  stars  are  all  the  poetry 
which  cities  have  ;  and  therefore  that  the  poet's 
only  dwelling  should  be  in  sylvan  solitudes,  under 
the  green  roof  of  trees.  Beautiful,  no  doubt, 
are  all  the  forms  of  Nature,  when  transfigured 
by  the  miraculous  power  of  poetry  ;  hamlets 
and  harvest-fields,  and  nut-brown  waters,  flowing 
ever  under  the  forest,  vast  and  shadowy,  will 
all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  rural  life.  But  after 
all,  what  are  these  but  the  decorations  and  paint 
ed  scenery  in  the  great  theatre  of  human  life  ? 
What  are  they  but  the  coarse  materials  of  the 
poet's  song  ?  Glorious  indeed  is  the  world  of 


A    ROMANCE.  75 

God  around  us,  but  more  glorious  the  world  of 
God  within  us.  There  lies  the  Land  of  Song  ; 
there  lies  the  poet's  native  land.  The  river  of 
life,  that  flows  through  streets  tumultuous,  bear 
ing  along  so  many  gallant  hearts,  so  many  wrecks 
of  humanity  ;  —  the  many  homes  and  house 
holds,  each  a  little  world  in  itself,  revolving 
round  its  fireside,  as  a  central  sun  ;  all  forms  of 
human  joy  and  suffering,  brought  into  that  nar 
row  compass  ;  —  and  to  be  in  this,  and  be  a  part 
of  this  ;  acting,  thinking,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 
with  his  fellow-men  ;  —  such,  such  should  be  the 
poet's  life.  If  he  would  describe  the  world,  he 
should  live  in  the  world.  The  mind  of  the 
scholar,  if  you  would  have  it  large  and  liberal, 
should  come  in  contact  with  other  minds.  It 
is  better  that  his  armor  should  be  somewhat 
bruised  by  rude  encounters  even,  than  hang  for 
ever  rusting  on  the  wall.  Nor  will  his  themes  be 
few  or  trivial,  because  apparently  shut  in  between 
the  walls  of  houses,  and  having  merely  the  dec 
orations  of  street  scenery.  A  ruined  character 
is  as  picturesque  as  a  ruined  castle.  There  are 
dark  abysses  and  yawning  gulfs  in  the  human 
heart,  which  can  be  rendered  passable  only  by 
bridging  them  over  with  iron  nerves  and  sinews, 


76  HYPERION, 

as  Challey  bridged  the  Sarine  in  Switzerland, 
and  Telford  the  sea  between  Anglesea  and  Eng 
land,  with  chain  bridges.  These  are  the  great 
themes  of  human  thought  ;  not  green  grass,  and 
flowers,  and  moonlight.  Besides,  the  mere  ex 
ternal  forms  of  Nature  we  make  our  own,  and 
carry  with  us  everywhere,  by  the  power  of  mem 
ory." 

"  I  fear,  however,"  interrupted  Flemming, 
"  that  in  towns  the  soul  of  man  grows  proud.  He 
needs  at  times  to  be  sent  forth,  like  the  Assyrian 
monarch,  into  green  fields,  '  a  wondrous  wretch 
and  weedless,'  to  eat  green  herbs,  and  be  wak 
ened  and  chastised  by  the  rain  shower  and  win 
ter's  bitter  weather.  Moreover,  in  cities  there 
is  danger  of  the  soul's  becoming  wed  to  pleas 
ure,  and  forgetful  of  its  high  vocation.  There 
have  been  souls  dedicated  to  heaven  from  child 
hood,  and  guarded  by  good  angels  as  sweet  se 
clusions  for  holy  thoughts,  and  prayers,  and  all 
good  purposes  ;  wherein  pious  wishes  dwelt  like 
nuns,  and  every  image  was  a  saint  ;  and  yet  in 
life's  vicissitudes,  by  the  treachery  of  occasion, 
by  the  thronging  passions  of  great  cities,  have 
become  soiled  and  sinful.  They  resemble  those 
convents  on  the  river  Rhine,  which  have  been 


A    ROMAHCE.  77 

changed  to  taverns  ;  from  whose  chambers  the 
pious  inmates  have  long  departed,  and  in  whose 
cloisters  the  footsteps  of  travellers  have  effaced 
the  images  of  buried  saints,  and  whose  walls  are 
written  over  with  ribaldry  and  the  names  of  stran 
gers,  and  resound  no  more  with  holy  hymns,  but 
with  revelry  and  loud  voices." 

"  Both  town  and  country  have  their  dangers,*' 
said  the  Baron  ;  u  and  therefore,  wherever  the 
scholar  lives,  he  must  never  forget  his  high  voca 
tion.  Other  artists  give  themselves  up  wholly 
to  the  study  of  their  art.  It  becomes  with  them 
almost  religion.  For  the  most  part,  and  in  their 
youth,  at  least,  they  dwell  in  lands  where  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  soul  is  beauty  ;  laden 
with  it,  as  the  air  may  be  with  vapor,  till  their 
very  nature  is  saturated  with  the  genius  of  their 
art.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  artist's  life  in 
Italy." 

u  I  agree  with  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming  , 
"  and  such  should  be  the  poet's  everywhere  ; 
for  he  has  his  Rome,  his  Florence,  his  whole 
glowing  Italy,  within  the  four  walls  of  his  library. 
He  has  in  his  books  the  ruins  of  an  antique 
world,  —  and  the  glories  of  a  modern  one,  — 
^•s  Apollo  and  Transfiguration.  He  must  nei- 


78  HYPERION, 

ther  forget  nor  undervalue  his  vocation ;  but  thank 
God  that  he  is  a  poet  ;  and  everywhere  be  true 
to  himself,  and  to  4  the  vision  and  the  faculty 
divine'  he  recognizes  within  him." 

"  But,  at  any  rate,  a  town  life  is  most  event 
ful,"  continued  the  Baron.  "  The  men  who 
make,  or  take,  the  lives  of  poets,  and  scholars, 
always  complain  that  these  lives  are  barren  of 
incidents.  Hardly  a  literary  biography  begins 
without  some  such  apology,  unwisely  made.  I 
confess,  however,  that  it  is  not  made  without 
some  show  of  truth  ;  if,  by  incidents,  we  mean 
only  those  startling  events  which  suddenly  turn 
aside  the  stream  of  time,  and  change  the  world's 
history  in  an  hour.  There  is  certainly  a  uniform 
ity,  pleasing  or  unpleasing,  in  literary  life,  which 
for  the  most  part  makes  to-day  seem  twin-born 
with  yesterday.  But  if,  by  incidents,  you  mean 
events  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind,  (and 
why  not  ?)  noiseless  events,  that  do  not  scar 
the  forehead  of  the  world  as  battles  do,  yet  change 
it  not  the  less,  then  surely  the  lives  of  literary 
men  are  most  eventful.  The  complaint  and  the 
apology  are  both  foolish.  I  do  not  see  why  a 
successful  book  is  not  as  great  an  event  as  a 
successful  campaign  ;  only  different  in  kind,  and 
not  easily  compared." 


A    ROMANCE.  79 

11  Indeed,"  interrupted  Flemming,  "  in  no 
sense  is  the  complaint  strictly  true,  though  at 
times  apparently  so.  Events  enough  there  are, 
were  they  all  set  down.  A  life,  that  is  worth 
writing  at  all,  is  worth  writing  minutely.  Be 
sides,  all  literary  men  have,  not  lived  in  silence 
and  solitude; — not  all  in  stillness,  not  all  in 
shadow.  For  many  have  lived  in  troubled  times, 
in  the  rude  and  adverse  fortunes  of  the  state  and 
age,  and  could  say,  with  Wallenstein, 

1  Our  life  was  but  a  battle  and  a  march  ; 
And,  like  the  wind's  blast,  never-resting,  homeless, 
We  stormed  across  the  war-convulsed  earth.' 

Many  such  examples  has  history  recorded  ;  Dante, 
Cervantes,  Byron,  and  others ;  men  of  iron  ;  men 
who  have  dared  to  breast  the  strong  breath  of 
public  opinion,  and,  like  spectre-ships,  come 
sailing  right  against  the  wind.  Others  have  been 
puffed  out  by  the  first  adverse  wind  that  blew  ; 
disgraced  and  sorrowful,  because  they  could  not 
please  others.  Had  they  been  men,  they  would 
have  made  these  disappointments  their  best 
friends,  and  learned  from  them  the  needful  lesson 
of  self-reliance." 

"  To  confess  the  truth,"  added  the  Baron, 


80  HYPERION, 

"  the  lives  of  literary  men,  with  their  hopes  and 
disappointments,  and  quarrels  and  calamities, 
present  a  melancholy  picture  of  man's  strength 
and  weakness.  On  that  very  account  the  scholar 
can  make  them  profitable  for  encouragement,  con 
solation,  warning." 

"  And  after  all,"  continued  Flemming,  "  per 
haps  the  greatest  lesson,  which  the  lives  of  lit 
erary  men  teach  us,  is  told  in  a  single  word  : 
Wait  !  —  Every  man  must  patiently  .bide  his 
time.  He  must  wait.  More  particularly  in 
lands,  like  my  native  land,  where  the  pulse  of 
life  beats  with  such  feverish  and  impatient  throbs, 
is  the  lesson  needful.  Our  national  character 
wants  the  dignity  of  repose.  We  seem  to  live 
in  the  midst  of  a  battle,  —  there  is  such  a  din, 
such  a  hurrying  to  and  fro.  In  the  streets  of  a 
crowded  city  it  is  difficult  to  walk  slowly.  You 
feel  the  rushing  of  the  crowd,  and  rush  with  it 
onward.  In  the  press  of  cur  life  it  is  difficult  to 
be  calm.  In  this  stress  of  wind  and  tide,  all 
professions  seem  to  drag  their  anchors,  and  are 
swept  out  into  the  main.  The  voices  of  the 
Present  say,  '  Come  ! '  But  the  voices  of  the 
Past  say,  c  Wait  !  '  With  calm  and  solemn 
footsteps  the  rising  tide  bears  against  the  rushing 


A    ROMANCE.  81 

torrent  up  stream,  and  pushes  back  the  hurrying 
waters.  With  no  less  calm  and  solemn  footsteps, 
nor  less  certainly,  does  a  great  mind  bear  up 
against  public  opinion,  and  push  back  its  hurry 
ing  stream.  Therefore  should  every  man  wait, 

—  should  bide  his  time.     Not  in  listless  idleness, 

—  not   in   useless   pastime,  —  not   in   querulous 
dejection  ;  but  in  constant,   steady,  cheerful  en 
deavours,  always  willing  and  fulfilling,  and  accom 
plishing  his  task,  that,  when  the  occasion  comes, 
he  may  be  equal  to  the   occasion.     And  if  it 
never  comes,  what  matters  it  ?     What  matters 
it  to  the  world,  whether  I,  or  you,  or  another 
man  did  such  a  deed,  or  wrote  such  a  book, 
sobeit  the  deed  and  book  were  well  done  ?     It 
is  the  part  of  an  indiscreet  and  troublesome  am 
bition   to  care   too  much  about   fame,  —  about 
what  the  world  says  of  us  ;  —  to  be  always  look 
ing  into    the  faces  of  others  for   approval  ;   to 
be  always  anxious  for  the  effect  of  what  we  do 
and  say  ;  to  be  always  shouting  to  hear  the  echo 
of  our  own  voices.      If  you  look  about  you,  you 
will  see  men  who  are  wearing  life  away  in  fever- 
jsh  anxiety  of  fame,  and  the  last  we  shall  ever 
hear  of  them  will  be  the  funeral  bell  that  tolls 
them  to  their  early  graves  !     Unhappy  men,  and 

6 


82  HYPERION, 

unsuccessful  !  because  their  purpose  is,  not  to 
accomplish  well  their  task,  but  to  clutch  the 
c  trick  and  fantasy  of  fame '  ;  and  they  go  to  their 
graves  with  purposes  unaccomplished  and  wishes 
unfulfilled.  Better  for  them,  and  for  the  world 
in  their  example,  had  they  known  how  to  wait  ' 
Believe  me,  the  talent  of  success  is  nothing  more 
than  doing  what  you  can  do  well  ;  and  doing  well 
whatever  you  do,  —  without  a  thought  of  fame. 
If  it  come  at  all,  it  will  come  because  it  is  deserv 
ed,  not  because  it  is  sought  after.  And,  more 
over,  there  will  be  no  misgivings,  no  disap 
pointment,  no  hasty,  feverish,  exhausting  ex 
citement." 


Thus  endeth  the  First  Book  of  Hyperion.  I 
make  no  record  of  the  winter.  Paul  Flemming 
buried  himself  in  books ;  in  old,  dusty  books. 
He  worked  his  way  diligently  through  the  ancient 
poetic  lore  of  Germany,  from  Frankish  Legends 
of  Saint  George,  and  Saxon  Rhyme-Chronicles, 
and  Nibelungen-Lieds,  and  Helden-Buchs,  and 
Songs  of  the  Minnesingers  and  Mastersingers, 
and  Ships  of  Fools,  and  Reynard  the  Foxes,  and 


A    ROMANCE.  83 

Death-Dances,  and  Lamentations  of  Damned 
Souls,  into  the  bright,  sunny  land  of  harvests, 
where,  amid  the  golden  grain  and  the  blue  corn 
flowers,  walk  the  modern  bards,  and  sing. 


"  Something  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish, 

Must  love,  and  joy,  and  sorrow  learn ; 
Something  with  passion  clasp,  or  perish, 
And  in  itself  to  ashes  burn." 


BOOK   THE  SECOND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SPRING. 

IT  was  a  sweet  carol,  which  the  Rhodian  chil 
dren  sang  of  old  in  Spring,  bearing  in  their  hands, 
from  door  to  door,  a  swallow,  as  herald  of  the 
season  :  — 

"  The  Swallow  is  come  ! 

The  Swallow  is  come  ! 

O,  fair  are  the  seasons,  and  light 

Are  the  days  that  she  brings, 

With  her  dusky  wings, 

And  her  bosom  snowy  white !  " 

A  pretty  carol,  too,  is  that,  which  the  Hunga 
rian  boys,  on  the  islands  of  the  Danube,  sing  to 
the  returning  stork  in  Spring  :  — 

"  Stork  !  Stork  !  poor  Stork  ! 
Why  is  thy  foot  so  bloody  ? 
A  Turkish  boy  hath  torn  it; 
Hungarian  boy  will  heal  it, 
With  fiddle,  fife,  and  drum." 


88  HYPERION, 

But  what  child  has  a  heart  to  sing  in  this  ca 
pricious  clime  of  ours,  where  Spring  comes  sail 
ing  in  from  the  sea,  with  wet  and  heavy  cloud- 
sails,  and  the  misty  pennon  of  the  East-wind 
nailed  to  the  mast  ?  Yet  even  here,  and  in  the 
stormy  month  of  March  even,  there  are  hright, 
warm  mornings,  when  we  open  our  windows  to 
inhale  the  balmy  air.  The  pigeons  fly  to  and 
fro,  and  we  hear  the  whirring  sound  of  wings. 
Old  flies  crawl  out  of  the  cracks,  to  sun  them 
selves  ;  and  think  it  is  Summer.  They  die  in 
their  conceit ;  and  so  do  our  hearts  within  us, 
when  the  cold  sea-breath  comes  from  the  eastern 
sea,  and  again 

w  The  driving  hail 
Upon  the  window  beats  with  icy  flail." 

The  red-flowering  maple  is  first  in  blossom, 
its  beautiful  purple  flowers  unfolding  a  fortnight 
before  the  leaves.  The  moose-wood  follows, 
with  rose-colored  buds  and  leaves  ;  and  the 
dog- wood,  robed  in  the  white  of  its  own  pure 
blossoms.  Then  comes  the  sudden  rain-storm  ; 
and  the  birds  fly  to  and  fro,  and  shriek.  Where 
do  they  hide  themselves  in  such  storms  ?  at  what 
firesides  dry  their  feathery  cloaks  ?  At  the  fire 
side  of  the  great,  hospitable  sun  ;  to-morrow,  not 


A    ROMANCE.  89 

before  ;  —  they  must  sit  in   wet  garments  until 
then. 

Tn  all  climates  Spring  is  beautiful.  In  the 
South  it  is  intoxicating,  and  sets  a  poet  beside 
himself.  The  birds  begin  to  sing  ;  —  they  utter 
a  few  rapturous  notes,  and  then  wait  for  an  an 
swer  in  the  silent  woods.  Those  green-coated 
musicians,  the  frogs,  make  holiday  in  the  neigh 
bouring  marshes.  They,  too,  belong  to  the  or 
chestra  of  Nature  ;  whose  vast  theatre  is  again 
opened,  though  the  doors  have  been  so  long 
oohed  with  icicles,  and  the  scenery  hung  with 
snow  and  frost  like  cobwebs.  This  is  the  pre 
lude  which  announces  the  opening  of  the  scene. 
Already  the  grass  shoots  forth.  The  waters 
leap  with  thrilling  pulse  through  the  veins  of 
the  earth  ;  the  sap  through  the  veins  of  the 
plants  and  trees  ;  and  the  blood  through  the 
veins  of  man.  What  a  thrill  of  delight  in  Spring 
time  !  What  a  joy  in  being  and  moving  !  Men 
are  at  work  in  gardens  ;  and  in  the  air  there  is 
an  odor  of  the  fresh  earth.  The  leaf-buds  begin 
to  swell  and  blush.  The  white  blossoms  of  the 
cherry  hang  upon  the  boughs  like  snow-flakes  ; 
and  ere  long  our  next-door  neighbours  will  be  com 
pletely  liidden  from  us  by  the  dense  green  foli- 


90  HYPERION, 

age.  The  May-flowers  open  the'r  soft  blue 
eyes.  Children  are  let  loose  in  the  fields  and 
gardens.  They  hold  buttercups  under  sach 
others'  chins,  to  see  if  they  love  butter.  And 
the  little  girls  adorn  themselves  with  chains  and 
curls  of  dandelions  ;  pull  out  the  yellow  leaves, 
to  see  if  the  schoolboy  loves  them,  and  blow  the 
down  from  the  leafless  stalk,  to  find  out  if  their 
mothers  want  them  at  home. 

And  at  night  so  cloudless  and  so  still  !  Not  a 
voice  of  living  thing,  —  not  a  whisper  of  leaf  or 
waving  bough,  — not  a  breath  of  wind,  — not  a 
sound  upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air  !  And  over 
head  bends  the  blue  sky,  dewy  and  soft,  and  ra 
diant  with  innumerable  stars,  like  the  inverted 
bell  of  some  blue  flower,  sprinkled  with  golden 
dust,  and  breathing  fragrance.  Or  if  the  heav 
ens  are  overcast,  it  is  no  wild  storm  of  wind  and 
rain  ;  but  clouds  that  melt  and  fall  in  showers. 
One  does  not  wish  to  sleep  ;  but  lies  awake  to 
hear  the  pleasant  sound  of  the  dropping  rain. 

It  was  thus  the  Spring  began  in  Heidelberg. 


A    ROMANCE.  91 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    COLLOQUY. 

*4  AND  what  think  you  of  Tiedge's  Urania  ? ' 
said  the  Baron,  smiling,  as  Paul  Flernming  closed 
the  book,  and  laid  it  upon  the  table. 

**  I  think,"  said  Flemming,  "  that  it  is  very 
much  like  Jean  Paul's  grandfather,  —  in  the  high 
est  degree  poor  and  pious." 

"  Bravo  !  "  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "  That  is 
the  best  criticism  I  have  heard  upon  the  book. 
For  my  part,  I  dislike  it  as  much  as  Goethe  did. 
It  was  once  very  popular,  and  lay  about  in  every 
parlour  and  bed-room.  This  annoyed  the  old 
gentleman  exceedingly  ;  and  I  do  not  wonder 
at  it.  He  complains,  that  at  one  time  nothing 
was  sung  or  said  but  this  Urania.  He  believed 
in  Immortality;  but  wished  to  cherish  his  belief 
in  quietness.  He  once  told  a  friend  of  his,  that 
he  had,  however,  learned  one  thing  from  all  this 


92  HYPERION, 

talk  about  Tiedge  and  his  Urania  ;  which  was, 
that  the  saints,  as  well  as  the  nobility,  constitute 
an  aristocracy.  He  said  he  found  stupid  women, 
who  were  proud  because  they  believed  in  Immor 
tality  with  Tiedge,  and  had  to  submit  himself  to 
not  a  few  mysterious  catechizings  and  tea-table 
lectures  on  this  point ;  and  that  he  cut  them  short 
by  saying,  that  he  had  no  objection  whatever  to 
enter  into  another  state  of  existence  hereafter, 
but  prayed  only  that  he  might  be  spared  the  honor 
of  meeting  there  any  of  those  who  had  believed 
in  it  here;  for,  if  he  did,  they  would  flock 
around  him  on  all  sides,  exclaiming,  c  Were  we 
not  in  the  right  ?  Did  we  not  tell  you  so  ?  Has 
it  not  all  turned  out  just  as  we  said  ? '" 

"  How  shocked  the  good  old  ladies  must  have 
been  !  "  said  Flemming. 

"  No  doubt,  their  nerves  suffered  a  little  ;  but 
the  young  women  loved  him  all  the  better  for  be 
ing  witty  and  wicked ;  and  thought,  if  they  could 
only  marry  him,  how  they  would  reform  him." 

"  Bettina  Brentano,  for  instance." 

"  O,  no  !  That  happened  long  afterwards. 
Goethe  was  then  an  old  man  of  sixty.  She  had 
never  seen  him,  and  knew  him  only  by  his  writ 
ings  ;  a  romantic  girl  of  seventeen." 


A    ROMANCE.  93 

"And  yet  much  in  love  with  the  sexagenari 
an.  And  surely,  a  more  wild,  fantastic  passion 
never  sprang  up  in  woman's  breast.  She  was  a 
flower  that  worshipped  the  sun." 

"  She  afterwards  married  Achim  von  Arnim, 
and  is  now  a  widow.  And  not  the  least  singular 
part  of  the  affair  is,  that,  having  grown  older, 
and  I  hope  colder,  she  should  herself  publish  the 
letters  which  passed  between  her  and  Goethe." 

"  Particularly  the  letter  in  which  she  describes 
her  first  visit  to  Weimar,  and  her  interview  with 
the  hitherto  invisible  divinity  of  her  dreams.  The 
old  gentleman  took  her  upon  his  knees,  and  she 
fell  asleep  with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
Oberon  must  have  touched  her  eyes  with  the 
juice  of  Love-in-idleness.  However,  this  book 
of  Goethe's  Correspondence  with  a  Child  is  a 
very  singular  and  valuable  revelation  of  the  feel 
ings  which  he  excited  in  female  hearts.  Yoi 
say  she  afterwards  married  Achim  von  Arnim  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  he  and  her  brother,  Clemens 
Brentano,  published  that  wondrous  book,  the 
Boy's  Wonder-Horn." 

"  The  Boy's  Wonder-Horn  ! "  said  Flem- 
ming,  after  a  short  pause,  for  the  name  seemed 
to  have  thrown  him  into  a  reverie  ;  —  "I  know 


94  HYPERION, 

the  book  almost  by  heart.  Of  all  your  German 
books,  it  is  the  one  which  produces  upon  my 
imagination  the  most  wild  and  magic  influence. 
I  have  a  passion  for  ballads  !  " 

"  And  who  has  not  ?  "  said  the  Baron,  with  a 
smile.  u  They  are  the  gypsy-children  of  song, 
born  under  green  hedgerows,  in  the  leafy  lanes 
and  by-paths  of  literature, — in  the  genial  Sum 
mer-time." 

"  Why  do  you  say  Summer-time,  and  not  Sum 
mer?"  inquired  Flemming.  "The  expression 
reminds  me  of  your  old  Minnesingers ;  —  of 
Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  and  Walther  von  der 
Vogelweide,  and  Count  Kraft  von  Toggenburg, 
and  your  own  ancestor,  I  dare  say,  Burkhart  von 
Hohenfels.  They  were  always  singing  of  the 
gentle  Summer-time.  They  seem  to  have  lived 
poetry,  as  well  as  sung  it ;  like  the  birds  who 
make  their  marriage  beds  in  the  voluptuous  trees." 

"  Is  that  from  Shakspeare  ?  " 

"  No  ;  from  Lope  de  Vega." 

"  You  are  deeply  read  in  the  lore  of  antiquity, 
and  the  Aubades  and  Watch-Songs  of  the  old 
Minnesingers.  What  do  you  think  of  the  shoe 
maker  poets  that  came  after  them,  —  with  their 
guilds  and  singing-schools  ?  It  makes  me  laugh 


A    ROMANCE.  95 

to  think  how  the  great  streams  of  your  German 
Helicon,  shrunk  to  small  rivulets,  go  bubbling  and 
gurgling  over  the  pebbly  names  of  Zwinger, 
Wurgendrussel,  Buchenlin,  Hellfire,  Old  Stoll, 
Young  Stoll,  Strong  Bopp,  Dang  Brotscheim, 
Batt  Spiegel,  Peter  Pfort,  and  Martin  Gumpel. 
And  then  the  Corporation  of  the  Twelve  Wise 
Masters,  with  their  stumpfe-reime  and  klingende- 
reime,  and  their  Hans  Tindeisen's  rosemary- 
weise,  and  Joseph  Schmierer's  flowery-para- 
dise-weise,  and  Frauenlob's  yellow-weise,  and 
biue-weise,  and  frog-weise,  and  looking-glass- 
weise  !  " 

"  O,  I  entreat  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming, 
laughing,  "  do  not  call  those  men  poets  !  You 
transport  me  to  quaint  old  Nuremberg,  and  I  see 
Hans  Sachs  making  shoes,  and  Hans  Folz  shav 
ing  the  burgomaster." 

"  By  the  way,"  interrupted  the  Baron,  "  did 
you  ever  read  Hoffmann's  beautiful  story  of  Mas 
ter  Martin,  the  Cooper  of  Nuremberg  ?  I  will 
read  it  to  you  this  very  night.  It  is  the  most 
delightful  picture  of  that  age,  which  you  can  con 
ceive.  But  look  !  the  sun  has  already  set  behind 
the  Alsatian  hills.  Let  us  go  up  to  the  castle 
and  look  for  the  ghost  in  Prince  Ruprecht's  tow 
er.  O,  what  a  glorious  sunset  !  " 


96  HYPERION, 

Flamming  looked  at  the  evening  sky,  and  a 
shade  of  sadness  stole  over  his  countenance. 
He  told  not  to  his  friend  the  sorrow  with  which 
his  heart  was  heavy,  but  kept  it  for  himself  alone. 
He  knew  that  the  time,  which  comes  to  all  men, 
—  the  time  to  suffer  and  be  silent,  —  had  come 
to  him  likewise  ;  and  he  spake  no  word.  O,  well 
has  it  been  said,  that  there  is  no  grief  like  the 
grief  which  does  not  speak  ! 


A    ROMANCE.  97 


CHAPTER  III. 

OWL-TOWERS. 

"  THERE  sits  the  old  Frau  Himmelauen, 
perched  up  in  her  owl-tower,"  said  the  Baron 
to  Flemniing,  as  they  passed  along  the  Haupt- 
strasse.  "  She  looks  down  through  her  round- 
eyed  spectacles  from  her  nest  there,  and  watches 
every  one  that  goes  by.  I  wonder  what  mis 
chief  she  is  hatching  now.  Do  you  know  she 
has  nearly  ruined  your  character  in  town  ?  She 
says  you  have  a  rakish  look,  because  you  carry 
a  cane,  and  your  hair  curls.  Your  gloves,  also, 
are  a  shade  too  light  for  a  strictly  virtuous  man." 

"It  is  very  kind  in  her  to  take  such  good 
lare  of  my  character,  particularly  as  I  am  a 
stranger  in  town.  She  is  doubtless  learned  in 
the  Clothes- Philosophy." 

"  And    ignorant   of    every    thing   else.     She 
asked  a   friend  of  mine,  the   other  day,  whether 
Christ  was  a  Catholic  or  a  Protestant." 
7 


08  HYPERION, 

"  That  is  really  too  absurd  !  " 

"  Not  too  absurd  to  be  true.  And,  ignorant 
as  she  is,  she  contrives  to  do  a  good  deal  of 
mischief  in  the  course  of  the  year.  Why,  the 
women  already  call  you  Wilhelm  Meister." 

"  They  are  at  liberty  to  call  me  what  they 
please.  But  you,  who  know  me  better,  know 
that  I  am  something  more  than  they  would  imply 
by  the  name." 

"  She  says,  moreover,  that  the  American  wo 
men  sit  with  their  feet  out  of  the  window,  and 
have  no  pocket-handkerchiefs." 

"  Excellent  !  " 

They  crossed  the  market-place,  and  went  up 
beneath  the  grand  terrace  into  the  court-yard  of 
the  castle. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  under  the  great  linden- 
trees,  that  grow  on  the  summit  of  the  Rent  Tow 
er,"  said  Flemming.  "From  that  point,  as  from 
a  watch-tower,  we  can  look  down  into  the  garden, 
and  see  the  crowd  below  us." 

"  And  amuse  ourselves,  as  old  Frau  Himmel- 
auen  does,  at  her  window  in  the  Hauptstrasse," 
added  the  Baron. 

The  keeper's  daughter  unlocked  for  them  the 
door  of  the  tower,  and,  climbing  the  steep  stair 


A     ROMANCE.  99 

case,  they  seated  themselves  on  a  wooden  bench 
under  the  linden-trees. 

"  How  beautifully  these  trees  overgrow  the  old 
tower  !  And  see  what  a  solid  mass  of  masonry 
lies  in  the  great  fosse  down  there,  toppled  from 
its  base  by  the  explosion  of  a  mine  !  It  is  like  a 
rusty  helmet  cleft  in  twain,  but  still  crested  with 
towering  plumes  !  " 

"  And  what  a  motley  crowd  in  the  garden  I 
Philisters  and  Sons  of  the  Muses  !  And  there 
goes  the  venerable  Thibaut,  taking  his  evening 
stroll.  Do  you  see  him  there,  with  his  silver 
hair  flowing  over  his  shoulders,  and  that  friendly 
face,  which  has  for  so  many  years  pored  over  the 
Pandects  ?  I  assure  you,  he  inspires  me  with 
awe.  And  yet  he  is  a  merry  old  man,  and  loves 
his  joke,  particularly  at  the  expense  of  Moses  and 
other  ancient  lawgivers." 

Here  their  attention  was  diverted  by  a  wild- 
looking  person,  who  passed  with  long  strides  un 
der  the  archway  in  the  fosse,  right  beneath  them, 
and  disappeared  among  the  bushes.  He  was  ill- 
dressed,  his  hair  flying  in  the  wind,  his  move 
ments  hurried  and  nervous,  and  the  expression 
of  his  broad  countenance  wild,  strange,  and  ear 
nest. 


100  HYPERION, 

"  Who  can  that  be  ? "  asked  Flemming.  "  He 
strides  away  indignantly,  like  one  of  Ossian's 
ghosts  !  " 

"  A  great  philosopher,  whose  name  I  have  for 
gotten.  Truly,  a  strange  owl  !  " 

"  He  looks  like  a  lion  with  a  hat  on." 

"  He  is  a  mystic,  who  reads  Schubert's  His 
tory  of  the  Soul,  and  lives,  for  the  most  part,  in 
the  clouds  of  the  Middle  Ages.  To  him  the 
spirit-world  is  still  open.  He  believes  in  the 
transmigration  of  souls  ;  and  I  dare  say  is  now 
following  the  spirit  of  some  departed  friend,  who 
has  taken  the  form  of  yonder  pigeon." 

"  What  a  strange  hallucination  !  He  lives,  I 
suppose,  in  the  land  of  cloud-shadows.  And,  as 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas  was  said  to  be  lifted  up 
from  the  ground  by  the  fervor  of  his  prayers,  so, 
no  doubt,  is  he  by  the  fervor  of  his  visions." 

•"  He  certainly  appears  to  neglect  all  sublunary 
things  ;  and,  to  judge  from  certain  appearances, 
since  you  seem  fond  of  holy  similitudes,  one 
would  say,  that,  like  St.  Serapion  the  Sindonite, 
he  had  but  one  shirt.  Yet  what  cares  he  ?  he 
lives  in  that  poetic  dream-land  of  his  thoughts, 
and  clothes  himself  in  poetry." 

"  He  is  a  poet,  then,  as  well  as  a  philoso 
pher  ?  " 


A    ROMANCE.  101 

"  Yes  ;  but  a  poet  who  never  writes.  There 
is  nothing  in  nature  to  which  his  imagination  does 
not  give  a  poetic  hue.  But  the  power  to  make 
others  see  these  objects  in  the  same  poetic  light 
is  wanting.  Still  he  is  a  man  of  fine  powers  and 
feelings  ;  for  next  to  being  a  great  poet  is  the 
power  of  understanding  one,  —  of  finding  one's 
self  in  him,  as  we  Germans  say." 

Three  figures,  dressed  in  black,  now  came 
from  one  of  the  green  alleys,  and  stopped  on  the 
brink  of  a  fountain  that  was  playing  among  the 
gay  flowers  in  the  garden.  The  eldest  of  the 
three  was  a  woman  in  that  season  of  life  when 
the  early  autumn  gives  to  the  summer  leaves  a 
warmer  glow,  yet  fades  them  not.  Though  the 
mother  of  many  children,  she  was  still  beautiful ; 
—  resembling  those  trees  which  blossom  in  Oc 
tober,  when  the  leaves  are  changing,  and  whose 
fruit  and  blossom  are  on  the  branch  at  once.  At 
her  side  was  a  girl  of  some  sixteen  years,  who 
seemed  to  lean  upon  her  arm  for  support.  Her 
figure  was  slight ;  her  countenance  beautiful, 
though  deadly  white  ;  and  her  meek  eyes  like 
the  flower  of  the  nightshade,  pale  and  blue,  but 
sending  forth  golden  rays.  They  were  attended 
by  a  tall  youth  of  foreign  aspect,  who  seemed  a 


102  HYPERION, 

young  Antinoiis,  with  a  mustache  and  a  nose 
a  la  Kosciusko.  In  other  respects  a  perfect  hero 
of  romance. 

11  Unless  mine  eyes  deceive  me,"  said  the 
Baron,  "  there  is  the  Frau  von  Ilmenau,  with 
her  pale  daughter  Emma,  and  that  eternal  Polish 
count.  He  is  always  hovering  about  them,  play 
ing  the  unhappy  exile,  merely  to  excite  that  poor 
girl's  sympathies ;  and  as  wretched  as  genius  and 
wantonness  can  make  him." 

"  Why,  he  is  already  married,  you  know,"  re 
plied  Flemming.  "  And  his  wife  is  young  and 
beautiful." 

"  That  does  not  prevent  him  from  being  in 
love  with  some  one  else.  That  question  was 
decided  in  the  Courts  of  Love  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  Accordingly  he  has  sent  his  fair  wife  to 
Warsaw.  But  how  pale  the  poor  child  looks  !  " 

"  She  has  just  recovered  from  severe  illness. 
In  the  winter,  you  know,  it  was  thought  she 
would  not  live  from  hour  to  hour." 

"  And  she  has  hardly  recovered  from  that  dis 
ease,  before  she  seems  threatened  with  a  worse 
one  ;  namely,  a  hopeless  passion.  However, 
people  do  not  die  of  love  now-a-days." 

"  Seldom,  perhaps,"  said  Flemming.     "  And 


A    ROMANCE.  103 

yet  it  is  folly  to  pretend  that  one  ever  wholly 
recovers  from  a  disappointed  passion.  Such 
wounds  always  leave  a  scar.  There  are  faces  I 
can  never  look  upon  without  emotion.  There  are 
names  I  can  never  hear  spoken  without  almost 
starting." 

"  But  whom  have  we  here  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  French  poet  Quinet,  with  his 
fair  German  wife  ;  one  of  the  most  interesting 
women  I  ever  knew.  He  is  the  author  of  a  very 
wild  Mystery,  or  dramatic  prose-poem,  in  which 
the  Ocean,  Mont-Blanc,  and  the  Cathedral  of 
Strasburg  have  parts  to  play  ;  and  the  saints  on 
the  stained  windows  of  the  minster  speak,  and 
the  statues  and  dead  kings  enact  the  Dance  of 
Death.  It  is  entitled  Ahasuerus,  or  the  Wander 
ing  Jew." 

11  Or,  as  the  Danes  would  translate  it,  the 
Shoemaker  of  Jerusalem.  That  would  be  a 
still  more  fantastic  title  for  his  fantastic  book. 
You  know  I  am  no  great  admirer  of  the  modern 
French  school  of  writers.  The  tales  of  Paul  de 
Kock  seem  to  me  like  obscene  stories  told  at 
dinner-tables.  It  has  been  truly  said  of  him, 
that  he  is  not  only  populaire,  but  populacier  ; 
and  rather  harshly  of  George  Sand  and  Victor 


104  HYPERION, 

Hugo,  that  their  works  stand  like  fortifications, 
well  built  and  well  supplied  with  warlike  muni 
tions  ;  but  ineffectual  against  the  Grand  Army  of 
God,  which  marches  onward,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  In  surveying  a  national  literature, 
the  point  you  must  start  from  is  national  char 
acter.  That  lets  you  into  many  a  secret.  The 
most  prominent  trait  in  the  French  character  is 
love  of  amusement  and  excitement ;  and " 

"  I  should  say,  rather,  the  fear  of  ennui," 
interrupted  Flemming.  u  Some  one  has  said, 
with  a  great  deal  of  truth,  that  *  the  gentry  of 
France  rush  into  Paris  to  escape  from  ennui, 
as,  in  the  noble  days  of  chivalry,  the  defenceless 
inhabitants  of  the  champaign  fled  into  the  castles, 
at  the  approach  of  some  plundering  knight  or 
lawless  baron  ;  forsaking  the  inspired  twilight 
of  their  native  groves,  for  the  luxurious  shades 
of -the  royal  gardens.'  What  do  you  think  of 
that  ?  " 

The  Baron  replied  with  a  smile  :  — 

"  There  is  only  one  Paris;  and  out  of  Paris 
there  is  no  salvation  for  decent  people." 

Thus  conversing  of  many  things,  sat  the  two 
friends  under  the  linden-trees  on  the  Rent  Tower, 
till  gradually  the  crowd  disappeared  from  the  gar- 


A    ROMANCE.  105 

den,  and  the  objects  around  them  grew  indis 
tinct,  in  the  fading  twilight.  Between  them 
and  the  amber-colored  western  sky,  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  trees  looked  heavy  and  hard,  as 
if  cast  in  bronze  ;  and  already  the  evening  stars 
hung  like  silver  lamps  in  the  towering  branches 
of  that  Tree  of  Life,  brought  more  than  two 
centuries  ago  from  its  primeval  paradise  in 
America,  to  beautify  the  gardens  of  the  Pala 
tinate. 

"  I  take  a  mournful  pleasure  in  gazing  at  that 
tree,"  said  Flemming,  as  they  rose  to  depart. 
"  It  stands  there  so  straight  and  tall,  with  iron 
bands  around  its  noble  trunk  and  limbs,  in  silent 
majesty,  or  whispering  only  in  its  native  tongue, 
and  freighting  the  homeward  wind  with  sighs  ! 
It  reminds  me  of  some  captive  monarch  of  a 
savage  tribe,  brought  over  the  vast  ocean  for 
a  show,  and  chained  in  the  public  market-place 
of  the  city,  disdainfully  silent,  or  breathing  only 
in  melancholy  accents  a  prayer  for  his  native 
forest,  a  longing  to  be  free." 

"  Magnificent  !  "  cried  the  Baron.  u  I  al 
ways  experience  something  of  the  same  feeling, 
when  I  walk  through  a  conservatory.  The  lux 
uriant  plants  of  the  tropics  —  those  illustrious 


106  HYPERION, 

exotics,  with  their  gorgeous  flamingo-colored 
blossoms,  and  great  flapping  leaves,  like  ele 
phants'  ears  —  have  a  singular  working  upon 
my  imagination,  and  remind  me  of  a  menagerie 
and  wild  beasts  kept  in  cages.  But  your  illus 
tration  is  finer; — indeed,  a  grand  figure.  Put 
it  down  for  an  epic  poem." 


A    ROMANCE.  107 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    BEER-SCANDAL. 

ON  their  way  homeward,  Flemming  and  the 
Baron  passed  through  a  narrow  lane,  in  which 
was  a  well-known  Studenten-Kneipe.  At  the 
door  stood  a^  young  man,  whom  the  Baron  at 
once  recognized  as  his  friend  Von  Kleist.  He 
was  a  student  ;  and  universally  acknowledged, 
among  his  young  acquaintance,  as  a  "  devilish 
handsome  fellow  "  ;  notwithstanding  a  tremen 
dous  scar  on  his  cheek,  and  a  cream-colored 
mustache,  as  soft  as  the  silk  of  Indian  corn.  In 
short,  he  was  a  renowncr,  and  a  duellist. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Von  Kleist  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Baron  !  Is  it  you  ?  Come 
in  ;  come  in.  You  shall  see  some  sport.  A 
Fox-Commerce  is  on  foot,  and  a  regular  Beer- 
Scandal." 

"  Shall  we  go  in,  Flemming  ?  " 


108  HYPERION, 

"  Certainly.  I  should  like  to  see  how  these 
things  are  managed  in  Heidelberg.  You  are  a 
baron,  and  I  am  a  stranger.  It  is  of  no  conse 
quence  what  you  and  I  do,  as  the  king's  fool  An- 
geli  said  to  the  poet  Bautru,  urging  him  to  put  on 
his  hat  at  the  royal  dinner-table." 

William  Lilly,  the  Astrologer,  says,  in  his 
Autobiography,  that,  when  he  was  committed 
to  the  guard-room  in  Whitehall,  he  thought 
himself  in  hell ;  for  "some  were  sleeping,  others 
swearing,  others  smoking  tobacco  ;  and  in  the 
chimney  of  the  room  there  were  two  bushels 
of  broken  tobacco-pipes,  and  almost  half  a  load 
of  ashes."  What  he  would  have  thought,  if  he 
had  peeped  into  this  Heidelberg  Studenten- 
Kneipe,  I  know  not.  He  certainly  would  not 
have  thought  himself  in  heaven  ;  unless  it  were 
a  Scandinavian  heaven.  The  windows  were 
open  ;  and  yet  so  dense  was  the  atmosphere  with 
the  smoke  of  tobacco  and  the  fumes  of  beer,  that 
the  tallow  candles  burned  but  dimly.  A  crowd 
of  students  were  sitting  at  three  long  tables,  in 
the  large  hall  ;  a  medley  of  fellows,  known  at 
German  Universities  under  the  cant  names  of 
Old-Ones,  Mossy-Heads,  Princes  of  Twilight, 
and  Pomatum- Stallions.  Tjfiey  were  smoking, 


.     A    ROMANCE.  109 

drinking,  singing,  screaming,  and  discussing  the 
great  Laws  of  the  Broad-Stone  and  the  Gutter. 
They  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  likewise,  about 
Besens,  and  Zobels,  and  Poussades  ;  and,  if  they 
had  been  charged  for  the  noise  they  made,  as 
travellers  used  to  be,  in  the  old  Dutch  taverns, 
they  would  have  had  a  longer  bill  to  pay  for  that 
than  for  their  beer. 

In  a  large  arm-chair,  upon  the  middle  table, 
sat  one  of  those  distinguished  individuals  known 
among  German  students  as  a  Senior,  or  Leader 
of  a  Landsmannschaft.  He  was  booted  and 
spurred,  and  wore  a  very  small  crimson  cap, 
and  a  very  tight  blue  jacket,  and  very  long  hair, 
and  a  very  dirty  shirt.  He  was  President  of 
the  night ;  and,  as  Flemming  entered  the  hall 
with  the  Baron  and  his  friend,  striking  upon  the 
table  with  a  mighty  broadsword,  he  cried  in  a 
loud  voice :  — 

"  Silentium  ! " 

At  the  same  moment,  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
hall  was  thrown  open,  and  a  procession  of  new 
comers,  or  Nasty-Foxes,  as  they  are  called  in  the 
college  dialect,  entered  two  by  two,  looking 
wild,  and  green,  and  foolish.  As  they  came 
forward,  they  were  obliged  to  pass  under  a  pair 


110  HYPERION, 

of  naked  swords,  held  crosswise  by  two  Old- 
Ones,  who,  with  pieces  of  burnt  cork,  made  an 
enormous  pair  of  mustaches  on  the  smooth, 
rosy  cheeks  of  each,  as  he  passed  beneath  this 
arch  of  triumph.  While  the  procession  was 
entering  the  hall,  the  President  lifted  up  his 
voice  again,  and  began  to  sing  the  well-known 
Fox-song,  in  the  chorus  of  which  all  present 
joined  lustily. 


WHAT  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 

What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 

What  comes  there  from  the  leathery  hill  ? 

Sal  Sa! 

Leathery  hill ! 
What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 

It  is  a  postilion  ! 
It  is  a  postilion  ! 
It  is  a  leathery  postilion  ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Postilion ! 
It  is  a  postilion ! 

What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  leathery  postilion  ? 

Sa !  Sa  ! 

Postilion  ! 
What  brings  the  postilion  ( 


A    ROMANCE.  Ill 

He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  leathery  Fox  ' 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  Fox  ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 

Your  servant,  Masters  mine ! 
Your  servant,  Masters  mine  ! 
Your  servant,  much-honored  Masters  mine . 

Sa!  Sa! 

Much-honored  Masters  mine  I 
Your  servant,  Masters  mine ! 

How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Papa  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Herr  Papa ! 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa? 

He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  Cicero ! 
He  reads  in  leathery  Cicero  ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 

How  does  the  Fran  Mamma  ? 
How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Frau  Mamma  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Frau  Mamma ! 
How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 


112  HYPERION, 

She  makes  the  Papa  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  leathery  tea ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  tea ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea  ! 

How  does  the  Mamsell  Scour:1 
How  does  the  Mamsell  Soeur? 
How  does  the  leathery  Mamsell  Sceur  ? 

Sa !  Sa ! 

Mamseil  Soeur ! 
How  does  the  Mamsell  Sceur  ? 

She  knits  the  Papa  stockings  ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  stockings  ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  leathery  stockings ' 

Sa !  Sa ! 

Leathery  stockings ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  stockings ! 

How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Rector  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Herr  Rector ! 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 

He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  ! 
Ho  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  ! 
He  calls  the  scholar,  leathery  Boy  ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  Boy ! 
He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  ! 


A    ROMANCE.  1 1 J 

And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  ? 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  ? 
And  smokes  the  leathery  Fox  tobacco ' 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Fox  tobacco ! 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  ? 

A  little,  Masters  mine  ! 
A  little,  Masters  mine  ! 
A.  little,  much-honored  Masters  mine  . 

Sa!  Sa1 

Much-honored  Masters  min« ! 
A  little,  Masters  mine ! 

Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  leathery  pipe  ! 

Sa  !  Sa ! 

Leathery  pipe ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  ' 

O  Lord  !  It  makes  me  sick ! 
O  Lord !  It  makes  me  sick  ! 
O  Lord !  It  makes  me  leathery  sick ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  sick  ! 
O  Lord  !  It  makes  me  sick ! 

Then  let  him  throw  it  off. 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  leathery  oft 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  off! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off' 
8 


114  HYPERION, 

Now  I  again  am  well ! 
Now  he  again  is  well ! 
Now  1  again  am  leathery  wel) ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  well ! 
Now  I  again  am  well ' 

So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch ! 
So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch ! 
So  grows  the  leathery  Fox  a  Bursch . 

Sa!  Sa! 

Fox  a  Bursch ! 
So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 

At  length  the  song  was  finished.  Meanwhile 
large  tufts  and  strips  of  paper  had  been  twisted 
into  the  hair  of  the  Brand  ers,  as  those  are  called 
who  have  been  already  one  term  at  the  Univer 
sity,  and  then  at  a  given  signal  were  set  on 
fire,  and  the  Branders  rode  round  the  table  on 
chairs  amid  roars  of  laughter.  When  this  cere 
mony  was  completed,  the  President  rose  and 
in  a  solemn  voice  pronounced  a  long  discourse, 
in  which  old  college  jokes  were  mingled  with 
much  parental  advice  to  young  men  on  entering 
life,  and  the  whole  was  profusely  garnished  with 
select  passagp*  from  the  Old  Testament.  Then 
they  all  seated  themselves  at  the  table  and  the 
heavy  beer-drinking  set  in,  as  among  the  Gods 
and  Heroes  of  the  old  Northern  mythology. 


A    ROMANCE.  115 

"  Brander  !  Brander  !  "  screamed  a  youth 
whose  face  was  hot  and  flushed  with  supper  and 
with  beer  ;  "  Brander,  I  say  !  Thou  art  a  Doc 
tor  !  No,  —  a  Pope  ; — thou  art  a  Pope,  by — !" 

These  words  were  addressed  to  a  pale,  quiet- 
looking  person,  who  sat  opposite,  and  was  busy 
in  making  a  wretched  shaved  poodle  sit  on  his 
Jiind  legs  in  a  chair,  by  his  master's  side,  and 
hold  a  short  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  —  a  per 
formance  to  which  the  poodle  seemed  no  wise 
inclined. 

"  Thou  art  challenged  !  "  replied  the  pale  stu 
dent,  turning  from  his  dog,  who  dropped  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  leaped  under  the  table. 

Seconds  were  chosen  on  the  spot  ;  and  the 
arms  ordered  ;  namely,  six  mighty  goblets,  or 
Bassglaser,  filled  to  the  brim  with  foaming  beer. 
Three  were  placed  before  each  duellist. 

"  Take  your  weapons  !  "  cried  one  of  the  sec 
onds,  and  each  of  the  combatants  seized  a  goblet 
in  his  hand. 

"  Strike  !  " 

And  the  glasses  rang,  with  a  salutation  like 
the  crossing  of  swords. 

"  Set  to  !  » 

Each  set  the  goblet  to  his  lips. 


116  HYPERION, 

"  Out !  " 

And  each  poured  the  contents  down  his  throat, 
as  if  he  were  pouring  them  through  a  tunnel  into 
a  beer-barrel.  The  other  two  glasses  followed 
in  quick  succession,  hardly  a  long  breath  drawn 
between.  The  pale  student  was  victorious. 
He  was  first  to  drain  the  third  goblet.  He  held 
it  for  a  moment  inverted,  to  let  the  last  drops 
fall  out,  and  then  placing  it  quietly  on  the  table, 
looked  his  antagonist  in  the  face,  and  said  :  — 

"  Hit  !  » 

Then,  with  the  greatest  coolness,  looking  un 
der  the  table,  he  whistled  for  his  dog.  His  antag 
onist  stopped  midway  in  his  third  glass.  Every 
vein  in  his  forehead  seemed  bursting  ;  his  eyes 
were  wild  and  bloodshot,  his  hand  gradually  loos 
ened  its  hold  upon  the  table,  and  he  sank  and 
rolled  together  like  a  sheet  of  lead.  He  was 
drunk. 

At  this  moment  a  majestic  figure  came  stalk 
ing  down  the  table,  ghost-like,  through  the  dim, 
smoky  atmosphere.  His  coat  was  oiF,  his  neck 
bare,  his  hair  wild,  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  look 
ing  straight  before  him,  as  if  he  saw  some  beckon 
ing  hand  in  the  air,  that  others  could  not  see. 
His  left  hand  was  upon  his  hip,  and  in  his  right 


A    ROMANCE.  117 

he  held  a  drawn  sword  extended,  and  pointing 
downward.  Regardless  of  every  one,  erect, 
and  with  a  martial  stride,  he  marched  directly 
along  the  centre  of  the  table,  crushing  glasses 
and  overthrowing  bottles  at  every  step.  The 
students  shrunk  back  at  his  approach  ;  till  at 
length  one  more  intoxicated,  or  more  courageous, 
than  the  rest,  dashed  a  glass  full  of  beer  into  his 
face.  A  general  tumult  ensued,  and  the  student 
with  the  sword  leaped  to  the  floor.  It  was 
Von  Kleist.  He  was  renowning  it.  In  the  midst 
of  the  uproar  could  be  distinguished  the  offensive 
words  :  — 

"Arrogant!  Absurd!  Impertinent!  Dum- 
mer  Junge  !  " 

Von  Kleist  went  home  that  night  with  no  less 
than  six  duels  on  his  hands.  He  fought  them 
all  out  in  as  many  days  ;  and  came  off  with  only 
a  gash  through  his  upper  lip  and  another  through 
his  right  eyelid  from  a  dexterous  Suabian  Schla- 
ger. 


118  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WHITE    LADY'S    SLIPPER  AND  THE   PAS 
SION-FLOWER. 

THAT  night  Emma  of  Ilmenau  went  to  her 
chamber  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  her  dusky  eyes 
were  troubled  with  tears.  She  was  one  of  those 
gentle  beings  who  seem  created  only  to  love  and 
to  be  loved.  A  shade  of  melancholy  softened 
her  character.  She  shunned  the  glare  of  day 
light  and  of  society,  and  wished  to  be  alone. 
Like  the  evening  primrose,  her  heart  opened 
only  after  sunset ;  but  bloomed  through  the  dark 
night  with  sweet  fragrance.  Her  mother,  on  the 
contrary,  flaunted  in  the  gairish  light  of  society. 
There  was  no  sympathy  between  them.  Their 
souls  never  approached,  never  understood  each 
other,  and  words  were  often  spoken  which  wound 
ed  deeply.  And  therefore  Emma  of  Ilmenau 
went  to  her  chamber  that  night  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 


A    ROMANCE.  1  10 

She  was  followed  by  her  French  chamber 
maid,  Madeleine,  a  native  of  Strasburg,  who 
had  grown  old  in  the  family.  In  her  youth,  she 
had  been  poor,  —  and  virtuous,  because  she  had 
never  been  tempted  ;  and  now  that  she  had 
grown  old,  and  seen  no  immediate  reward  for 
her  virtue,  as  is  usual  with  weak  minds,  she  de 
spaired  of  Providence,  and  regretted  she  had 
}ever  been  tempted.  Whilst  this  unfortunate 
personage  was  lighting  the  wax  tapers  on  the 
toilet,  and  drawing  the  bed-curtains,  and  tattling 
about  the  room,  Emma  threw  herself  into  an 
arm-chair,  and,  crossing  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
and  letting  her  head  fall  upon  her  bosom,  seemed 
lost  in  a  dream. 

"  Why  have  these  gentle  feelings  been  given 
me  ?  "  said  she  in  her  heart.  "  Why  have  I 
been  born  with  all  these  warm  affections,  these 
ardent  longings  after  what  is  good,  if  they  lead 
only  to  sorrow  and  disappointment  ?  I  would 
love  some  one,  —  love  him  once  and  for  ever;  — 
devote  myself  to  him  alone,  —  live  for  him, — 
die  for  him,  —  exist  alone  in  him  !  But,  alas  ! 
'•n  all  this  wide  world  there  is  none  to  love  me, 
as  I  would  be  loved,  —  none  whom  I  may  love, 
as  I  am  capable  of  loving.  How  empty,  how 


J20  HYPERION, 

desolate,  seems  the  world  about  me  !  Why  ha3 
Heaven  given  me  these  affections,  only  to  fall 
and  fade  ?  " 

Alas  !  poor  child  !  thou,  too,  must  learn,  like 
others,  that  the  sublime  mystery  of  Providence 
goes  on  in  silence,  and  gives  no  explanation 
of  itself,  —  no  answer  to  our  impatient  ques 
tionings  ! 

"  Bless  me,  child,  what  ails  you  ?  "  exclaimed 
Madeleine,  perceiving  that  Emma  paid  no  at 
tention  to  her  idle  gossip.  u  When  I  was  of  your 
age " 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  now,  good  Madeleine. 
Leave  me,  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

"  Well,  here  is  something,"  continued  the 
maid,  taking  a  billet  from  her  bosom,  "  which 
I  hope  will  enliven  you.  When  I  was  of  your 
age " 

"Hush!  hush!"  said  Emma,  taking  the  billet 
from  the  hard  hand  of  Madeleine.  "  Once  more 
I  beg  you,  leave  me.  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

Madeleine  took  the  lamp  and  retired  slowly, 
wishing  her  young  mistress  many  good  nights  and 
rosy  dreams.  Emma  broke  the  seal  of  the  note. 
As  she  read,  her  face  became  deadly  pale,  and 
then,  as  quick  as  thought,  a  crimson  blush  gleam- 


A    ROMANCE.  121 

ed  on  her  cheek,  and  her  hands  trembled.  Ten 
derness,  pity,  love,  offended  pride,  the  weak 
ness  and  dignity  of  woman,  were  all  mingled 
in  her  look,  changing  and  passing  over  her  fine 
countenance  like  cloud-shadows.  She  sunk 
back  in  her  chair,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  as  if  she  would  hide  it  from  herself  and 
Heaven. 

"  He  loves  me  !  "  said  she  to  herself ;  u  loves 
me  ;  and  is  married  to  another,  whom  he  loves 
not  !  and  dares  to  tell  me  this  !  O,  never, — 
never,  —  never  !  And  yet  he  is  so  friendless 
and  alone  in  this  unsympathizing  world,  —  and  an 
exile,  and  homeless  !  I  can  but  pity  him  ;  — 
yet  I  hate  him,  and  will  see  him  no  more  !  " 

This  short  reverie  of  love  and  hate  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  a  clear,  mellow  voice,  which,  in 
the  universal  stillness  of  the  hour,  seemed  almost 
like  the  voice  of  a  spirit.  It  was  a  voice,  with 
out  the  accompaniment  of  any  instrument,  sing 
ing  those  sweet  lines  of  Goethe  :  — 

"  Under  the  tree-tops  is  quiet  now ! 
In  all  the  woodlands  hearest  thou 

Not  a  sound ! 

The  little  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees; 
Wait !  wait !  and  soon,  like  these, 
Sleepest  thou  ! " 


122  HYPERION, 

Emma  knew  the  voice,  and  started.  She  rush 
ed  to  the  window  to  close  it.  It  was  a  beautiful 
night,  and  the  stars  were  shining  peacefully  over 
the  mountain  of  All- Saints.  The  sound  of  the 
Neckar  was  soft  and  low  ;  nightingales  were  sing 
ing  among  the  brown  shadows  of  the  woods  ;  the 
large  red  moon  shone,  like  a  ruby,  in  the  hori 
zon's  ample  ring  ;  and  golden  threads  of  light 
seemed  braided  together  with  the  rippling  current 
of  the  river.  Tall  and  spectral  stood  the  white 
statues  on  the  bridge.  The  outlines  of  the  hills, 
the  castle,  the  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  the  spires 
and  roofs  of  the  town  were  as  strongly  marked 
as  if  cut  out  of  pasteboard.  Amid  this  fairy 
scene,  a  little  boat  was  floating  silently  down  the 
stream.  Emma  closed  the  window  hastily,  and 
drew  the  curtains  close. 

"  I  hate  him  ;  and  yet  T  will  pray  for  him," 
said  she,  as  she  laid  her  weary  head  upon  that 
pillow,  from  which,  but  a  few  months  before, 
she  thought  she  should  never  raise  it  again.  "  O, 
that  I  had  died  then  !  I  dare  not  love  him,  but  I 
will  pray  for  him  !  " 

Sweet  child  !  If  the  face  of  the  deceiver  comes 
so  often  between  thee  and  Heaven,  I  tremble  for 
thy  fate  !  The  plant  that  sprang  from  Helen's 


A    ROMANCE.  .23 

tears  destroyed  serpents  ;  —  would  that  from  thine 
might  spring  up  heart's-ease,  —  some  plant,  at 
least,  to  destroy  the  serpents  in  thy  bosom  !  Be 
lieve  me,  upon  the  margin  of  celestial  streams 
alone  those  simples  grow  which  cure  the  heart 
ache  ! 

And  this  the  silent  stars  beheld,  looking  down 
from  heaven,  and  told  it  not  again.  This,  like 
wise,  the  Fran  Himmelauen  beheld,  looking  from 
her  chamber-window,  and  was  not  so  discreet  as 
the  silent  stars. 


124  HYPERION, 


,  CHAPTER  VI. 

GLIMPSES    INTO    CLOUD-LAND. 

u  THERE  are  many  things,  which,  having  no 
corporeal  evidence,  can  be  perceived  and  com 
prehended  only  by  the  discursive  energies  of  rea 
son.  Hence  the  ambiguous  nature  of  matter  can 
be  comprehended  only  by  adulterated  opinion. 
Matter  is  the  principle  of  all  bodies,  and  is  stamp 
ed  with  the  impression  of  forms.  Fire,  air,  and 
water  derive  their  origin  and  principle  from  the 
scalene  triangle.  But  the  earth  was  created  from 
right-angled  triangles,  of  which  two  of  the  sides 
are  equal.  The  sphere  and  the  pyramid  contain 
in  themselves  the  figure  of  fire  ;  but  the  octae- 
dron  was  destined  to  be  the  figure  of  air,  and  the 
icosaedron  of  water.  The  right-angled  isosceles 
triangle  produces  from  itself  a  square,  and  the 
square  generates  from  itself  the  cube,  which  is  the 
figure  peculiar  to  earth.  But  the  figure  of  a  beau- 


A    ROMANCE.  ]25 

tiful  and  perfect  sphere  was  Imparted  to  the  most 
beautiful  and  perfect  world,  that  it  might  be  indi 
gent  of  notliing,  but  contain  all  things,  embracing 
and  comprehending  them  in  itself,  and  thus  might 
be  excellent  and  admirable,  similar  to  and  in  con 
cord  with  itself,  ever  moving  musically  and  me 
lodiously.  If  I  use  a  novel  language,  excuse  me. 
As  Apuleius  says,  pardon  must  be  granted  to 
novelty  of  words,  when  it  serves  to  illustrate  the 
obscurity  of  things." 

These  words  came  from  the  lips  of  the  lion- 
like  philosopher  who  has  been  noticed  before 
in  these  pages.  He  was  sitting  with  Flemming, 
smoking  a  long  pipe.  As  the  Baron  said,  he 
was  indeed  a  strange  owl  ;  for  the  owl  is  a  grave 
bird  ;  a  monk,  who  chants  midnight  mass  in  the 
great  temple  of  Nature  ;  —  an  anchorite,  —  a 
pillar  saint,  —  the  very  Simeon  Stylites  of  his 
neighbourhood.  Such,  likewise,  was  the  philo 
sophical  Professor.  Solitary,  but  with  a  mighty 
current,  flowed  the  river  of  his  life,  like  the  Nile, 
without  a  tributary  stream,  and  making  fertile 
only  a  single  strip  in  the  vast  desert.  His  tem 
perament  had  been  in  youth  a  joyous  one  ;  and 
now,  amid  all  his  sorrows  and  privations,  —  for 
he  had  many,  —  he  looked  upon  the  world  as  a 


J26  HYPERION, 

glad,  bright,  glorious  world.  On  the  many  joys  of 
life  he  gazed  still  with  the  eyes  of  childhood,  from 
the  far-gone  Past  upward,  trusting,  hoping  ;  — 
and  upon  its  sorrows  with  the  eyes  of  age,  from 
the  distant  Future,  downward,  triumphant,  not 
despairing.  He  loved  solitude,  and  silence,  and 
candle-light,  and  the  deep  midnight.  "For," 
said  he,  "  if  the  morning  hours  are  the  wings 
of  the  day,  I  only  fold  them  about  me  to  sleep 
more  sweetly ;  knowing,  that,  at  its  other  extrem 
ity,  the  day,  like  the  fowls  of  the  air,  has  an 
epicurean  morsel,  —  a  parson's  nose  ;  and  on 
this  oily  midnight  my  spirit  revels  and  is  glad." 

Such  was  the  Professor,  who  had  been  talking 
in  a  half- intelligible  strain  for  two  hours  or  more 
The  Baron  had  fallen  fast  asleep  in  his  chair  ; 
but  Flemrning  sat  listening  with  excited  imagina 
tion,  and  the  Professor  continued  in  the  following 
words,  which,  to  the  best  of  his  listener's  mem 
ory,  seemed  gleaned  here  and  there  from  Fich- 
te's  Destiny  of  Man,  and  Schubert's  History  of 
/he  Soul. 

11  Life  is  one  and  universal  ;  its  forms  many 
and  individual.  Throughout  this  beautiful  and 
wonderful  creation  there  is  never-ceasing  motion, 
without  rest  by  night  or  day,  ever  weaving  to  and 


A    ROMANCE.  127 

fro.  Swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle  it  flies  from 
Birth  to  Death,  from  Death  to  Birth  ;  from  the 
beginning  seeks  the  end,  and  finds  it  not,  for  the 
seeming  end  is  only  a  dim  beginning  of  a  new 
out-going  and  endeavour  after  the  end.  As  the 
ice  upon  the  mountain,  when  the  warm  breath 
of  the  summer  sun  breathes  upon  it,  melts,  and 
divides  into  drops,  each  of  which  reflects  an 
image  of  the  sun  ;  so  life,  in  the  smile  of  God's 
love,  divides  itself  into  separate  forms,  each  bear 
ing  in  it  and  reflecting  an  image  of  God's  love. 
Of  all  these  forms  the  highest  and  most  perfect 
in  its  God-likeness  is  the  human  soul.  The  vast 
cathedral  of  Nature  is  full  of  holy  scriptures,  and 
shapes  of  deep,  mysterious  meaning  ;  but  all  is 
solitary  and  silent  there  ;  no  bending  knee,  no  up 
lifted  eye,  no  lip  adoring,  praying.  Into  this  vast 
cathedral  comes  the  human  soul,  seeking  its  Cre 
ator  ;  and  the  universal  silence  is  changed  to 
sound,  and  the  sound  is  harmonious,  and  has  a 
meaning,  and  is  comprehended  and  felt.  It  was 
an  ancient  saying  of  the  Persians,  that  the  waters 
rush  from  the  mountains  and  hurry  forth  into  all 
the  lands  to  find  the  Lord  of  the  Earth  ;  and  the 
flame  of  the  fire,  when  it  awakes,  gazes  no  more 
upon  the  ground,  but  mounts  heavenward  to  seek 


128  HYPERION, 

the  Lord  of  Heaven  ;  and  here  and  there  the 
Earth  has  built  the  great  watch-towers  of  the 
mountains,  and  they  lift  their  heads  far  up  into 
the  sky,  and  gaze  ever  upward  and  around,  to  see 
if  the  Judge  of  the  World  comes  not  !  Thus  in 
Nature  herself,  without  man,  there  lies  a  waiting 
and  hoping,  a  looking  and  yearning,  after  an  un 
known  somewhat.  Yes  ;  when,  above  there, 
where  the  mountain  lifts  its  head  over  all  others, 
that  it  may  be  alone  with  the  clouds  and  storms 
of  heaven,  the  lonely  eagle  looks  forth  into  the 
gray  dawn,  to  see  if  the  day  comes  not ;  when, 
by  the  mountain  torrent,  the  brooding  raven  lis 
tens  to  hear  if  the  chamois  is  returning  from  his 
nightly  pasture  in  the  valley  ;  and  when  the  soon 
uprising  sun  calls  out  the  spicy  odors  of  the 
thousand  flowers,  the  Alpine  flowers,  with  heav 
en's  deep  blue  and  the  blush  of  sunset  on  their 
leaves  ;  —  then  there  awake  in  Nature,  and  the 
soul  of  man  can  see  and  comprehend  them,  an 
expectation  and  a  longing  for  a  future  revelation 
of  God's  majesty.  They  awake,  also,  when,  in 
the  fulness  of  life,  field  and  forest  rest  at  noon, 
and  through  the  stillness  are  heard  only  the  song 
of  the  grasshopper  and  the  hum  of  the  bee  ;  and 
when  at  evening  the  singing  lark  up  from  the 


A    ROMANCE.  129 

sweet-smelling  vineyards  rises,  or  in  the  later 
hours  of  night  Orion  puts  on  his  shining  armor, 
to  walk  forth  into  the  fields  of  heaven.  But  in  the 
soul  of  man  alone  is  this  longing  changed  to  cer 
tainty,  and  fulfilled.  For,  lo  !  the  light  of  the  sun 
and  the  stars  shines  through  the  air,  and  is  no 
where  visible  and  seen  ;  the  planets  hasten  with 
more  than  the  speed  of  the  storm  through  infinite 
space,  and  their  footsteps  are  not  heard ;  but 
where  the  sunlight  strikes  the  firm  surface  of  the 
planets,  where  the  storm- wind  smites  the  wall 
of  the  mountain  cliff,  there  is  the  one  seen  and 
the  other  heard.  Thus  is  the  glory  of  God 
made  visible,  and  may  be  seen,  where  in  the 
soul  of  man  it  meets  its  likeness  changeless  and 
firm-standing.  Thus,  then,  stands  Man  ;  —  a 
mountain  on  the  boundary  between  two  worlds  ; 
—  its  foot  in  one,  its  summit  far-rising  into  the 
other.  From  this  summit  the  manifold  landscape 
of  life  is  visible,  the  way  of  the  Past  and  Per 
ishable,  which  we  have  left  behind  us  ;  and  as 
we  evermore  ascend,  bright  glimpses  of  the  day 
break  of  Eternity  beyond  us  !  " 

Flemming  would  fain  have  interrupted  this  dis 
course  at  times,  to  answer  and  inquire ;  but  the 
Professor  went  on,  warming  and  glowing  more 
9 


130  HYPERION, 

and  more.     At  length,  there  was  a  short  pause, 
and  Flemming  said  :  — 

"  All  these  indefinite  longings,  these   yearn 
ings   after   an  unknown   somewhat,   I  have    felt 
and  still  feel  within  me  ;  but  not  yet  their  fulfil 
ment." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  not  faith,"  an 
swered  the  Professor.  "  The  Present  is  an  age 
of  doubt,  and  disbelief,  and  darkness  ;  out  of 
which  shall  arise  a  clear  and  bright  Hereafter 
In  the  second  part  of  Goethe's  Faust,  there  is 
a  grand  and  striking  scene,  where  in  the  classical 
Walpurgis  Night,  on  the  Pharsalian  Plains,  the 
mocking  Mephistopheles  sits  down  between  the 
solemn  antique  Sphinxes,  and  boldly  questions 
them,  and  reads  their  riddles.  The  red  light 
of  innumerable  watch-fires  glares  round  about, 
and  shines  upon  the  terrible  face  of  the  arch- 
scofier  ;  while  on  either  side,  severe,  majestic, 
solemnly  serene,  we  behold  the  gigantic  forms 
of  the  children  of  Chimaera,  half  buried  in  the 
earth,  their  mild  eyes  gazing  fixedly,  as  if  they 
heard  through  the  midnight  the  swift-rushing 
wings  of  the  Stymphalides,  striving  to  outstrip 
the  speed  of  Alcides'  arrows  !  Angry  Griffins 
are  near  them  ;  and  not  far  are  Sirens,  singing 


A    ROMANCE.  131 

their  wondrous  songs  from  the  rocking  branches 
of  the  willow-trees  !  Even  thus  does  a  scoffing 
and  unbelieving  Present  sit  down  between  an 
unknown  Future  and  a  loo  believing  Past,  and 
question  and  challenge  the  gigantic  forms  of  Faith, 
half  buried  in  the  sands  of  Time,  and  gazing 
forward  steadfastly  into  the  night,  whilst  sounds 
of-  anger  and  voices  of  delight  alternate  vex  and 
soothe  the  ear  of  man  !  —  But  the  time  will 
come,  when  the  soul  of  man  shall  return  again 
childlike  and  trustful  to  its  faith  in  God,  and  look 
God  in  the  face  and  die  ;  for  it  is  an  old  saying, 
full  of  deep,  mysterious  meaning,  that  he  must 
die,  who  hath  looked  upon  a  God.  And  this  is 
the  fate  of  the  soul,  that  it  should  die  continually. 
No  sooner  here  on  earth  does  it  awake  to  its 
peculiar  being,  than  it  struggles  to  behold  and 
comprehend  the  Spirit  of  Life.  In  the  first  dim 
twilight  of  its  existence,  it  beholds  this  spirit, 
is  pervaded  by  its  energies,  —  is  quick  and  crea 
tive  like  the  spirit  itself,  and  yet  slumbers  away 
into  death  after  having  seen  it.  But  the  image 
it  has  seen  remains  ;  in  the  eternal  procreation, 
as  a  homogeneal  existence,  is  again  renewed  ;  and 
the  seeming  death,  from  moment  to  moment, 
becomes  the  source  of  kind  after  kind  of  exist- 


132  HYPERION, 

ences  in  ever-ascending  series.  The  soul  as 
pires  ever  onward  to  love  and  to  behold.  It  sees 
the  image  more  perfect  in  the  brightening  twilight 
of  the  dawn,  in  the  ever  higher-rising  sun.  It 
sleeps  again,  dying  in  the  clearer  vision  ;  but  the 
image  seen  remains  as  a  permanent  kind  ;  and 
the  slumberer  awakes  anew  and  ever  higher  after 
its  own  image,  till  at  length,  in  the  full  blaze  of 
noonday,  a  being  comes  forth,  which,  like  the 
eagle,  can  behold  the  sun  and  die  not.  Then 
both  live  on,  even  when  this  bodily  element,  the 
mist  and  vapor  through  which  the  young  eagle 
gazed,  dissolves  and  falls  to  earth." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,"  said 
Flemming  ;  "  but  if  I  do,  you  mean  to  say,  that, 
as  the  body  continually  changes  and  takes  unto 
itself  new  properties,  and  is  not  the  same  to-day 
as  yesterday,  so  likewise  the  soul  lays  aside 
its  idiosyncrasies,  and  is  changed  by  acquiring 
new  powers,  and  thus  may  be  said  to  die.  And 
hence,  properly  speaking,  the  soul  lives  alway 
in  the  Present,  and  has,  and  can  have,  no  Fu 
ture  ;  for  the  Future  becomes  the  Present, 
and  the  soul  that  then  lives  in  me  is  a  higher 
and  more  perfect  soul ;  and  so  onward  for  ever 
more.'1 


A    ROMANCE.  133 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  continued  the  Profes 
sor  ;  "  and  can  find  no  more  appropriate  Ian 
guage  to  express  my  meaning  than  that  which  I 
have  used.  But,  as  I  said  before,  pardon  must 
be  granted  to  the  novelty  of  words,  when  it 
serves  to  illustrate  the  obscurity  of  things.  And 
I  think  you  will  see  clearly  from  what  I  have 
said,  that  this  earthly  life,  when  seen  hereafter 
from  heaven,  will  seem  like  an  hour  passed  long 
ago,  and  dimly  remembered  ;  —  that  long,  labo 
rious,  full  of  joys  and  sorrows  as  it  is,  it  will 
then  have  dwindled  down  to  a  mere  point,  hardly 
visible  to  the  far-reaching  ken  of  the  disembodied 
spirit.  But  the  spirit  itself  soars  onward.  And 
thus  death  is  neither  an  end  nor  a  beginning.  It 
is  a  transition,  not  from  one  existence  to  another, 
but  from  one  state  of  existence  to  another.  No 
link  is  broken  in  the  chain  of  being  ;  any  more 
than  in  passing  from  infancy  to  manhood,  from 
manhood  to  old  age.  There  are  seasons  of  rev 
erie  and  deep  abstraction,  which  seem  to  me  anal 
ogous  to  death.  The  soul  gradually  loses  its  con 
sciousness  of  what  is  passing  around  it ;  and  takes 
no  longer  cognizance  of  objects  which  are  near. 
It  seems  for  the  moment  to  have  dissolved  its 
connection  with  the  body.  It  has  passed,  as  it 


134  HYPERION, 

were,  into  another  state  of  being.  It  lives  in 
another  world.  It  has  flown  over  lands  and 
seas  ;  and  holds  communion  with  those  it  loves, 
in  distant  regions  of  the  earth,  and  the  more 
distant  heaven.  It  sees  familiar  faces,  and  hears 
beloved  voices,  which  to  the  bodily  senses  are 
no  longer  visible  and  audible.  And  this  like 
wise  is  death  ;  save  that,  when  we  die,  the  soul 
returns  no  more  to  the  dwelling  it  has  left." 

"  You  seem  to  take  it  for  granted,"  interrupt 
ed  Flemming,  "  that,  in  our  reveries,  the  soul 
really  goes  out  of  the  body  into  distant  places, 
instead  of  summoning  up  their  semblance  with 
in  itself  by  the  power  of  memory  and  imagina 
tion." 

"  Something  I  must  take  for  granted,"  replied 
the  Professor.  "  We  will  not  discuss  that  point 
now.  I  speak  not  without  forethought.  Just 
observe  what  a  glorious  thing  human  life  is,  when 
seen  in  this  light  ;  and  how  glorious  man's  des 
tiny.  I  am  ;  thou  art ;  he  is  !  seems  but  a  school 
boy's  conjugation.  But  therein  lies  a  mysterious 
meaning.  We  behold  all  round  about  us  one 
vast  union,  in  which  no  man  can  labor  for  himself, 
without  laboring  at  the  same  tirce  for  all  others  ; 
a  glimpse  of  truth,  which,  by  the  universal  bar- 


A    ROMANCE.  135 

mony  of  things,  becomes  an  inward  benediction, 
and  lifts  the  soul  mightily  upward.  Still  more 
so,  when  a  man  regards  himself  as  a  necessary 
member  of  this  union.  The  feeling  of  our  dig 
nity  and  our  power  grows  strong,  when  we  say 
to  ourselves  :  '  My  being  is  not  objectless  and 
in  vain  ;  I  am  a  necessary  link  in  the  great 
chain,  which,  from  the  full  development  of  con 
sciousness  in  the  first  man,  reaches  forward  into 
eternity.  All  the  great,  and  wise,  and  good 
among  mankind,  all  the  benefactors  of  the  human 
race,  whose  names  I  read  in  the  world's  history, 
and  the  still  greater  number  of  those  whose 
good  deeds  have  outlived  their  names,  —  all  those 
have  labored  for  me.  I  have  entered  into  their 
harvest.  I  walk  the  green  earth  which  they 
inhabited.  I  tread  in  their  footsteps,  from  which 
blessings  grow.  I  can  undertake  the  sublime 
task  which  they  once  undertook,  the  task  of 
making  our  common  brotherhood  wiser  and  hap 
pier.  I  can  build  forward,  where  they  were 
forced  to  leave  off ;  and  bring  nearer  to  perfec 
tion  the  great  edifice  which  they  left  uncomplet 
ed.  And  at  length  I,  too,  must  leave  it,  and 
go  hence.  O,  this  is  the  sublimest  thought  of 
all !  I  can  never  finish  the  noble  task  ;  there- 


136  HYPERION, 

fore,  so  sure  as  this  task  is  my  destiny,  I  can 
never  cease  to  work,  and  consequently  never 
cease  to  be1.  What  men  call  death  cannot  break 
off  this  task,  which  is  never-ending ;  consequent 
ly  no  period  is  set  to  rny  being,  and  I  am  eternal. 
I  lift  my  head  boldly  to  the  threatening  moun 
tain-peaks,  and  to  the  roaring  cataract,  and  to 
the  storm-clouds  swimming  in  the  fire-sea  over 
head,  and  say,  —  I  am  eternal,  and  defy  your 
power  !  Break,  break  over  me  !  and  thou  Earth, 
and  thou  Heaven,  mingle  in  the  wild  tumult  ! 
and  ye  Elements,  foam  and  rage,  and  destroy  this 
atom  of  dust,  —  this  body,  which  I  call  mine  ! 
My  will  alone,  with  its  fixed  purpose,  shall  hover 
brave  and  triumphant  over  the  ruins  of  the  uni 
verse  ;  for  I  have  comprehended  my  destiny  ; 
and  it  is  more  durable  than  ye  !  It  is  eternal  , 
and  I,  who  recognize  it,  I  likewise  am  eter 
nal  ! '  Tell  me,  my  friend,  have  you  no  faith  in 
this  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  answered  Flemming,  and  there 
was  another  pause.  He  then  said  :  — 

"  I  have  listened  to  you  patiently  and  without 
interruption.  Now  listen  to  me.  You  complain 
of  the  skepticism  of  the  age.  This  is  one  form 
in  which  the  philosophic  spirit  of  the  age  presents 


A    ROMANCE.  137 

itself.  Let  me  tell  you,  that  another  form,  which 
it  assumes,  is  that  of  poetic  reverie.  Plato  of 
old  had  dreams  like  these  ;  and  the  Mystics  of 
the  Middle  Ages  ;  and  still  their  disciples  walk 
in  the  cloud-land  and  dream-land  of  this  poetic 
philosophy.  Pleasant  and  cool  upon  their  souls 
lie  the  shadows  of  the  trees  under  which  Plato 
taught.  From  their  whispering  leaves  comes 
wafted  across  the  noise  of  populous  centuries  a 
solemn  and  mysterious  sound,  which  to  them  is 
the  voice  of  the  Soul  of  the  World.  All  nature 
has  become  spiritualized  and  transfigured  ;  and, 
wrapped  in  beautiful,  vague  dreams  of  the  real  and 
the  ideal,  they  live  in  this  green  world,  like  the 
little  child  in  the  German  tale,  who  sits  by  the 
margin  of  a  woodland  lake,  and  hears  the  blue 
heaven  and  the  branches  overhead  dispute  with 
their  reflection  in  the  water,  which  is  the  reality 
and  which  the  image.  I  willingly  confess  that 
such  day-dreams  as  these  appeal  strongly  to  my 
imagination.  Visitants  and  attendants  are  they 
of  those  lofty  souls,  which,  soaring  ever  higher 
and  higher,  build  themselves  nests  under  the 
very  eaves  of  the  stars,  forgetful  that  they  cannot 
live  on  air,  but  must  descend  to  earth  for  food. 
Yet  I  recognize  them  as  day-dreams  only  ;  as 


138  HYPERION, 

shadows,  not  substantial  things.  What  I  mainly 
dislike  in  the  New  Philosophy  is  the  cool  imper 
tinence  with  which  an  old  idea,  folded  in  a  new 
garment,  looks  you  in  the  face  and  pretends  not 
to  know  you,  though  you  have  been  familiar 
friends  from  childhood.  I  remember  an  English 
author,  who,  in  speaking  of  your  German  phi 
losophies,  says  very  wisely  :  '  Often,  a  proposi 
tion  of  inscrutable,  and  dread  aspect,  when  reso 
lutely  grappled  with,  and  torn  from  its  shady  den, 
and  its  bristling  intrenchments  of  uncouth  ter 
minology,  and  dragged  forth  Vito  the  open  light 
of  day,  to  be  seen  by  the  natUi  1  eye  and  tried 
by  merely  human  understanding,  ^oves  to  be 
a  very  harmless  truth,  fat  ar  to  us  fvom  old, 
sometimes  so  familiar  as  to  be  a  truism.  Too 
frequently  the  anxious  novice  is  reminded  of 
Oryden  in  the  Battle  of  the  Books  ;  there  is  a 
helmet  of  rusty  iron,  dark,  grim,  gigantic  ;  and 
within  it,  at  the  farthest  corner,  is  a  head  no  big 
ger  than  a  walnut.' — Can  you  believe  that 
these  words  ever  came  from  the  pen  of  Thomas 
Carlyle  ?  He  has  himself  taken  up  the  uncouth 
terminology,  of  late  ;  and  many  pure,  simple  minds 
are  much  offended  at  it.  They  seem  to  take  it  as 
a  personal  insult.  They  are  angry,  and  deny  the 


A    ROMANCE.  139 

just  meed  of  praise.  Tt  is,  however,  hardly 
worth  while  to  lose  our  presence  of  mind.  Let 
us  rather  profit  as  we  may,  even  from  this  spec 
tacle,  and  recognize  the  monarch  in  his  mas 
querade.  For,  hooded  and  wrapped  about  with 
that  strange  and  antique  garb,  there  walks  a 
kingly,  a  most  royal  soul,  even  as  the  Emperor 
Charles  walked  amid  solemn  cloisters  under  a 
•nonk's  cowl,  —  a  monarch  still  in  soul.  Such 
things  are  not  new  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
^V»r  and  anon  they  sweep  over  the  earth,  and 
blow  themselves  out  soon ;  and  then  there  is  quiet 
for  a  season,  and  the  atmosphere  of  Truth  seems 
more  serene.  Why  would  you  pre^'h  to  the 
wind  ?  Why  reason  with  thunder-showers  ? 
Better  sit  quiet,  and  see  them  pass  over  like  a 
pageant,  cloudy,  superb,  and  vast." 

The  Professor  smiled  self-complacently,  but 
said  not  a  word.  Flemming  continued  :  — 

"  I  will  add  no  more  than  this  ;  —  there  are 
many  speculations  in  literature,  philosophy,  and 
religion,  which,  though  pleasant  to  walk  in,  and 
lying  under  the  shadow  of  great  names,  yet  lead 
to  no  important  result.  They  resemble  rather 
those  roads  in  the  Western  forests  of  my  native 
land,  which,  though  broad  and  pleasant  at  first, 


140  HYPERION, 

and  lying  beneath  the  shadow  of  great  branches, 
finally  dwindle  to  a  squirrel  track,  and  run  up  a 
tree  !  " 

The  Professor  hardly  knew  whether  he  should 
laugh   or  be    offended    at  this   sally  ;    and,   lay 
ing  his  hand  upon  Flemming's  arm,  he  said  se 
riously  :  — 

"  Believe  me,  my  young  friend,  the  time  will 
come,  when  you  will  think  more  wisely  on  these 
tilings.  And  with  you,  I  trust,  that  time  will 
soon  come  ;  since  it  moves  more  speedily  with 
some  than  with  others.  For  what  is  Time  ? 
The  shadow  on  the  dial,  —  the  striking  of  the 
clock,  —  the  running  of  the  sand,  —  day  and 
night, — summer  and  winter,  —  months,  years, 
centuries  ;  —  these  are  but  arbitrary  and  outward 
signs,  —  the  measure  of  Time,  not  Time  itself. 
Time  is  the  Life  of  the  Soul.  If  not  this,  then 
tell  me,  what  is  Time  ?  " 

The  high  and  animated  tone  of  voice  in  which 
the  Professor  uttered  these  words  aroused  the 
Baron  from  his  sleep  ;  and,  not  distinctly  com 
prehending  what  was  said,  but  thinking  the  Pro 
fessor  asked  what  time  it  was,  he  innocently  ex 
claimed  :  — 

"  I  should  think  it  must  be  near  midnight  !  " 


A    ROMANCE.  141 

This  somewhat  disconcerted  the  Professor, 
who  took  his  leave  soon  afterward.  When  he 
was  gone,  the  Baron  said  :  — 

"  Excuse  me  for  treating  your  guest  so  cava 
lierly.  His  philosophy  annoyed  me  not  a  little  ; 
and  I  took  refuge  in  sleep.  One  would  think,  to 
judge  by  the  language  of  this  sect,  that  they  alone 
saw  any  beauty  in  Nature ;  and,  when  I  hear  one 
of  them  discourse,  I  am  instantly  reminded  of 
Goethe's  Baccalaureus,  when  he  exclaims  :  '  The 
world  was  not,  before  I  created  it ;  I  brought  the 
sun  up  out  of  the  sea ;  with  me  began  the  changeful 
course  of  the  moon ;  the  day  decked  itself  on  my 
account  ;  the  earth  grew  green  and  blossomed  to 
meet  me  ;  at  my  nod,  in  that  first  night,  the  pomp 
of  all  the  stars  developed  itself ;  who  but  I  set 
you  free  from  all  the  bonds  of  Philister-like,  con 
tracting  thoughts  ?  I,  however,  emancipated  as 
my  mind  assures  me  I  am,  gladly  pursue  my  in 
ward  light,  advance  boldly  in  a  transport  pecu 
liarly  my  own,  the  bright  before  me,  and  the  dark 
behind  !  '  —  Do  you  not  see  a  resemblance  ? 
O,  they  might  be  modest  enough  to  confess,  that 
one  straggling  ray  of  light  may,  by  some  acci 
dent,  reach  the  blind  eyes  of  even  us  poor,  be 
nighted  heathens  !  " 


142  HYPERION, 

"  Alas  !  how  little  veneration  we  have  !  "  said 
Flemming.  "  I  could  not  help  closing  the  dis 
cussion  with  a  jest.  An  ill-timed  levity  often 
takes  me  by  surprise.  On  all  such  occasions,  I 
think  of  a  scene  at  the  University,  where,  in  the 
midst  of  a  grave  discussion  on  the  possibility  of 
Absolute  Motion,  a  scholar  said  he  had  seen  a 
rock  split  open,  from  which  sprang  a  toad,  who 
could  not  be  supposed  to  have  any  knowledge 
of  the  external  world,  and  consequently  his  mo 
tion  must  have  been  absolute.  The  learned 
Professor,  who  presided  on  that  occasion,  was 
hardly  more  startled  and  astonished  than  was  our 
learned  Professor,  five  minutes  ago.  But  come  ; 
wind  up  your  watch,  and  let  us  go  to  bed." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  Baron,  "  did  you 
mind  what  a  curious  head  he  has  ?  There  are 
two  crowns  upon  it." 

"  That  is  a  sign,"  replied  Flemming,  "that  he 
will  eat  his  bread  in  two  kingdoms." 

u  I  think  the  poor  man  would  be  very  thank 
ful,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  smile,  "  if  he  were 
always  sure  of  eating  it  in  one.  He  is  what 
the  Transcendentalists  call  a  God-intoxicated 
man  ;  and  I  advise  him,  as  Santeul  advised 
Bossuet,  to  go  to  Patmos  and  write  a  new  Apoc 
alypse." 


A    ROMANCE.  143 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MILL-WHEELS    AND    OTHER    WHEELS. 

A  FEW  days  after  this,  the  Baron  received 
letters  from  his  sister,  telling  him  that  her  phy 
sicians  had  prescribed  a  few  weeks  at  the  Baths 
of  Ems,  and  urging  him  to  meet  her  there  before 
the  fashionable  season. 

u  Come,"  said  he  to  Flemming  ;  "  make  this 
short  journey  with  me.  We  will  pass  a  few 
pleasant  days  at  Ems,  and  visit  the  other  water 
ing-places  of  Nassau.  It  will  drive  away  the 
melancholy  day-dreams  that  haunt  you.  Perhaps 
some  future  bride  is  even  now  waiting  for  you, 
with  dim  presentiments  and  undefined  longings,  at 
the  Serpent's  Bath." 

"  Or  some  widow  of  Ems,  with  a  cork-leg  ! " 
said  Flemming,  smiling  ;  and  then  added,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  half  jest,  half  earnest,  "  Certainly  ;  let 
us  go  in  pursuit  of  her  :  — 


144  HFPERION, 

*  Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  she, 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me  - 

*  Where'er  she  lie, 
Hidden  from  mortal  eye, 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny. '  " 

They  started  in  the  afternoon  for  Frankfort, 
pursuing  their  way  slowly  along  the  lovely  Berg- 
strasse,  famed  throughout  Germany  for  its  beauty. 
They  passed  the  ruined  house  where  Martin  Lu 
ther  lay  concealed  after  the  Diet  of  Worms,  and 
through  the  village  of  Handschuhsheimer,  as  old 
as  the  days  of  King  Pepin  the  Short,  —  a  ham 
let,  lying  under  the  hills,  half-buried  in  blossoms 
and  green  leaves.  Close  on  the  right  rose  the 
mountains  of  the  mysterious  Odenwald  ;  and  on 
the  left  lay  the  Neckar,  like  a  steel  bow  in  the 
meadow.  Farther  westward,  a  thin,  smoky  va 
por  betrayed  the  course  of  the  Rhine  ;  beyond 
which,  like  a  troubled  sea,  ran  the  blue,  billowy 
Alsatian  hills.  Song  of  birds,  and  sound  of  eve 
ning  bells,  and  fragrance  of  sweet  blossoms  filled 
the  air  ;  and  silent  and  slow  sank  the  broad  red 
sun,  half-hidden  amid  folding  clouds. 

"  We  shall  not  pass  the  night  at  Weinheim," 
said  the  Baron  to  the  postilion,  who  had  dis 


A  ROMANCE.  145 

mounted  to  walk  up  the  hill  leading  to  the  town. 
"  You  may  drive  to  the  mill  in  the  valley  of 
Birkenau." 

The  postilion  seized  one  of  his  fat  horses  by 
the  tail,  and  swung  himself  up  to  his  seat  again. 
They  rattled  over  the  paved  streets  of  Weinheim, 
and  took  no  heed  of  the  host  of  the  Golden 
Eagle,  who  stood  so  invitingly  at  the  door  of 
his  own  inn  ;  and  the  ruins  of  Burg  Windeck, 
above  there,  on  its  mountain  throne,  frowned 
at  them  for  hurrying  by,  without  staying  to  do 
him  homage. 

u  The  old  ruin  looks  well  from  the  valley," 
said  the  Baron  ;  "  but  let  us  beware  of  climb 
ing  that  steep  hill.  Most  travellers  are  like 
children  ;  they  must  needs  touch  whatever  they 
behold.  They  climb  up  to  every  old  broken 
tooth  of  a  castle  which  they  find  on  their  way  , 
—  get  a  toilsome  ascent  and  hot  sunshine  for 
their  pains,  and  come  down  wearied  and  disap 
pointed.  I  trust  we  are  wiser." 

They  crossed  the  bridge,  and  turned  up  the 
stream,  passing  under  an  arch  of  stone,  which 
serves  as  a  gateway  to  this  enchanted  valley 
of  Birkenau.  A  cool  and  lovely  valley,  shut 
in  by  high  hills  ;  —  shaded  by  alder-trees  and  tall 
10 


146  HYPERION, 

poplars,  under  which  rushes  the  Wechsnitz,  a 
noisy  mountain-brook,  that  ever  and  anon  puts 
its  broad  shoulder  to  the  wheel  of  a  mill,  and 
shows  that  it  can  labor  as  well  as  laugh.  At  one 
of  these  mills  they  stopped  for  the  night. 

A  mill  forms  as  characteristic  a  feature  in  the 
romantic  German  landscape  as  in  the  romantic 
German  tale.  It  is  not  only  a  mill,  but  likewise 
an  alehouse  and  rural  inn ;  so  that  the  associa 
tions  it  suggests  are  not  of  labor  only,  but  also 
of  pleasure.  It  stands  in  the  narrow  defile,  with 
its  picturesque  thatched  roof;  thither  throng 
the  peasants,  of  a  holyday  ;  and  there  are  rustic 
dances  under  the  trees. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  fast-approaching  summer 
night,  the  Baron  and  Flemming  walked  forth 
along  the  borders  of  the  stream.  As  they  heard 
it  rushing  and  gushing  among  the  stones  and  tan 
gled  roots,  and  the  great  wheel  turning  in  the  cur 
rent,  with  its  never-ceasing  plash  !  plash  !  it 
brought  to  their  minds  that  exquisite,  simple  song 
of  Goethe,  the  Youth  and  the  Mill-brook.  It 
was  for  the  moment  a  nymph,  which  sang  to  them 
in  the  voice  of  the  waters. 

"  I  am  persuaded,"  said  Flemming,  "  that, 
in  order  fully  to  understand  and  feel  the  popu- 


A    ROMANCE.  147 

lar  poetry  of  Germany,  one  must  be  familiar 
with  the  German  landscape.  Many  sweet  little 
poems  are  the  outbreaks  of  momentary  feelings  ; 
— words,  to  which  the  song  of  birds,  the  rustling 
of  leaves,  and  the  gurgle  of  cool  waters  form 
the  appropriate  music.  Or  perhaps  I  should 
say  they  are  words  which  man  has  composed  to 
the  music  of  nature.  Can  you  not,  even  now, 
hear  this  brooklet  telling  you  how  it  is  on  its  way 
to  the  mill,  where  at  daybreak  the  miller's  daugh 
ter  opens  her  window,  and  comes  down  to  bathe 
her  face  in  its  stream,  and  her  bosom  is  so  full 
and  white,  that  it  kindles  the  glow  of  love  in  the 
cool  waters  ?  " 

"  A  most  delightful  ballad,  truly,"  said  the 
Baron.  "  But,  like  many  others  of  our  little 
songs,  it  requires  a  poet  to  feel  and  understand 
it.  Sing  them  in  the  valley  and  woodland  shad 
ows,  and  under  the  leafy  roofs  of  garden  walks, 
and  at  night,  and  alone,  as  they  were  written 
Sing  them  not  in  the  loud  world,  —  for  the  loud 
world  laughs  such  things  to  scorn.  It  is  Miiller 
who  says,  in  that  little  song,  where  the  maiden 
bids  the  moon  good  evening  :  — 

*  This  song  was  made  to  be  sung  at  night, 
And  he  who  reads  it  in  broad  daylight 


148  HYPERION, 

Will  never  read  the  mystery  right ; 
And  yet  it  is  childlike  easy  ! ' 

He  has  written  a  great  many  pretty  songs,  n: 
which  the  momentary,  indefinite  longings  and 
impulses  of  the  soul  of  man  find  an  expression. 
He  calls  them  the  Songs  of  a  Wandering  Horn- 
player.  There  is  one  among  them  much  to  our 
present  purpose.  He  expresses  in  it  the  feeling 
of  unrest  and  desire  of  motion,  which  the  sight 
and  sound  of  running  waters  often  produce  in  us. 
It  is  entitled,  *  Whither  ? '  and  is  worth  repeating 
to  you. 

*  I  heard  a  brooklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

*I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave ; 

But  I  must  hasten  downward, 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave. 

*  Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 
And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

*  Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 

Whither,  O  brooklet  ?  say ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 
Murmured  my  senses  away. 


A    ROMANCE.  149 

•  What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 
'  That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
'T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 

« Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur 

And  wander  merrily  near ; 

The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear.'  " 

"  There  you  have  the  poetic  reverie,"  said 
Flemming,  "  and  the  dull  prose  commentary  and 
explanation  in  matter  of  fact.  The  song  is  pret 
ty  ;  and  was  probably  suggested  by  some  such 
scene  as  this  which  we  are  now  beholding. 
Doubtless,  all  your  old  national  traditions  sprang 
up  in  the  popular  mind  as  this  song  in  the 
poet's." 

"Your  opinion  is  certainly  correct,"  answered 
the  Baron  ;  "  and  yet  all  this  play  of  poetic  fan 
cy  does  not  prevent  me  from  feeling  the  chili 
night-air  and  the  pangs  of  hunger.  Let  us  go 
back  to  the  mill,  and  see  what  our  landlady  has 
for  supper.  Did  you  observe  what  a  loud,  sharp 
voice  she  has  ?  " 

"  People  always  have,  who  live  in  mills,  and 
near  waterfalls." 

On  the  following  morning,  they  emerged  un 
willingly  from  the  green,  dark  valley,  and  juur- 


150  HYPERION, 

neyed  along  the  level  highway  to  Frankfort, 
where  in  the  evening  they  heard  the  glorious  Don 
Giovanni  of  Mozart.  Of  all  operas,  this  was 
Flemming's  favorite.  What  rapturous  flights 
of  sound  !  what  thrilling,  pathetic  chimes  !  what 
wild,  joyous  revelry  of  passion  !  what  a  delirium 
of  sense  !  what  an  expression  of  agony  and  woe  ! 
—  all  the  feelings  of  suffering  and  rejoicing 
humanity  sympathized  with  and  finding  a  voice  in 
those  tones.  Flemming  and  the  Baron  listened 
with  ever-increasing  delight. 

"  How  wonderful  this  is !  "  exclaimed  Flem 
ming,  transported  by  his  feelings.  "  How  the 
chorus  swells  and  dies,  like  the  wind  of  sum 
mer  !  How  those  passages  of  mysterious  import 
seem  to  wave  to  and  fro,  like  the  swaying  branch 
es  of  trees ;  from  which  anon  some  solitary  sweet 
voice  darts  off  like  a  bird,  and  floats  away  and 
revels  in  the  bright,  warm  sunshine  !  And  then 
mark  !  how,  amid  the  chorus  of  a  hundred  voices 
and  a  hundred  instruments,  —  of  flutes,  and 
drums,  and  trumpets,  —  this  universal  shout  and 
whirlwind  of  the  vexed  air,  you  can  so  clearly 
distinguish  the  melancholy  vibration  of  a  single 
string,  touched  by  the  finger,  —  a  mournful, 
sobbing  sound  !  Ah,  this  is  indeed  human  life  ! 


A    ROMANCE.  151 

where,  in  the  rushing,  noisy  crowd,  and  amid 
sounds  of  gladness,  and  a  thousand  mingling 
emotions,  distinctly  audible  to  the  ear  of  thought, 
are  the  pulsations  of  some  melancholy  string  of 
the  heart,  touched  by  an  invisible  hand." 

Then  came,  in  the  midst  of  these  excited 
feelings,  the  ballet,  drawing  its  magic  net  about 
the  soul.  And  soon,  from  the  tangled  yet  har 
monious  mazes  of  the  dance,  came  forth  a  sylph- 
like  form,  her  scarf  floating  behind  her,  as  if 
she  were  fanning  the  air  with  gauze-like  wings. 
Noiseless  as  a  feather  or  a  snow-flake  falls,  did 
her  feet  touch  the  earth.  She  seemed  to  float 
in  the  air,  and  the  floor  to  bend  and  wave  under 
her,  as  a  branch,  when  a  bird  alights  upon  it  and 
takes  wing  again.  Loud  and  rapturous  applause 
followed  each  wonderful  step,  each  voluptuous 
movement  ;  and,  with  a  flushed  cheek  and  burn 
ing  eye,  and  bosom  panting  to  be  free,  stood 
the  gracefully  majestic  figure  for  a  moment  still, 
and  then  the  winged  feet  of  the  swift  dancing-girls 
glanced  round  her,  and  she  was  lost  again  in 
the  throng. 

"How  truly  exquisite  this  is  !  "  exclaimed 
the  Baron,  after  joining  loudly  in  the  applause. 

"  What  a  noble  figure  !     What  grace  !  what 


152  HYPERION, 

attitudes  !  How  much  soul  in  every  motion  ! 
how  much  expression  in  every  gesture  !  I  as 
sure  you,  it  produces  upon  me  the  same  effect 
as  a  beautiful  poem.  It  is  a  poem.  Every  step 
is  a  word  ;  and  the  whole  together  a  poem  !  " 

The  Baron  and  Flemming  were  delighted 
with  the  scene  ;  and  at  the  same  time  exceed 
ingly  amused  with  the  countenance  of  an  old 
prude  in  the  next  box,  who  seemed  to  look  upon 
the  whole  magic  show  with  such  feelings  as 
Michal,  Saul's  daughter,  experienced,  when 
she  looked  from  her  window  and  saw  King 
David  dancing  and  leaping  with  his  scanty  gar 
ments. 

"  After  all,"  said  Flemming,  "  the  old  French 
priest  was  not  so  far  out  of  the  way,  when  he 
said,  in  his  coarse  dialect,  '  The  dance  is  the 
Devil's  procession ;  and  paint  and  ornaments, 
the  whetting  of  the  Devil's  sword  ;  and  the  ring 
that  is  made  in  dancing,  the  Devil's  grindstone, 
whereon  he  sharpens  his  sword  ;  and  finally, 
—  a  ballet  is  the  pomp  and  mass  of  the  Devil, 
and  whosoever  entereth  therein  entereth  into 
his  pomp  and  mass  ;  for  the  woman  who  singeth 
is  the  prioress  of  the  Devil,  and  they  that  answer 
are  clerks,  and  they  that  look  on  are  parishion- 


A    ROMANCE.  153 

ers,  and  the  cymbals  and  flutes  are  the  bells,  and 
the  musicians  that  play  are  the  ministers  of  the 
Devil.'  " 

"  No  doubt,  this  good  lady  near  us  thinks  so 
likewise,"  answered  the  Baron,  laughing  ;  "  out 
she  likes  it,  for  all  that." 

When  the  play  was  over,  the  Baron  begged 
Flemming  to  sit  still,  till  the  crowd  had  gone. 

"  I  have  a  strange  fancy,"  said  he,  "  when 
ever  I  come  to  the  theatre,  to  see  the  end  of  all 
things.  When  the  crowd  is  gone,  and  the  cur 
tain  raised  again  to  air  the  house,  and  the  lamps 
are  all  out,  save  here  and  there  one  behind  the 
scenes,  the  contrast  with  what  has  gone  before 
is  most  impressive.  Every  thing  wears  a  dream 
like  aspect.  The  empty  boxes  and  stalls,  the 
silence,  the  smoky  twilight,  and  the  magic  scene 
dismantled,  produce  in  me  a  strange,  mysterious 
feeling.  It  is  like  a  dim  reflection  of  a  theatre 
in  water  or  in  a  dusty  mirror,  and  reminds  me 
of  some  of  Hoffmann's  wild  tales.  It  is  a  prac 
tical  moral  lesson,  a  commentary  on  the  play, 
and  makes  the  show  complete." 

It  was  truly  as  he  said  ;  only  tenfold  more 
desolate,  solemn,  and  impressive  ;  and  produced 
upon  the  mind  the  effect  we  experience,  when 


154  HYPERION, 

slumber  is  suddenly  broken,  and  dreams  and 
realities  mingle,  and  we  know  not  yet  whether 
we  sleep  or  wake.  As  they  at  length  passed 
out  through  the  dimly  lighted  passage,  they  heard 
a  vulgar-looking  fellow,  with  a  sensual  face  and 
shaggy  whiskers,  say  to  some  persons  who  were 
standing  near  him,  and  seemed  to  be  hangers-on 
of  the  playhouse  :  — 

"  I  shall  run  her  six  nights  at  Munich,  and  then 
take  her  on  to  Vienna." 

Flemming  thought  he  was  speaking  of  some 
favorite  horse.  He  was  speaking  of  his  beauti 
ful  wife,  the  ballet-dancer. 


A    ROMANCE.  155 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GOETHE. 

WHAT  most  interested  our  travellers  in  the 
ancient  city  of  Frankfort  was  neither  the  opera 
nor  the  Ariadne  of  Dannecker,  but  the  house 
in  which  Goethe  was  born,  and  the  scenes  he 
frequented  in  his  childhood  and  remembered  in 
his  old  age.  Such,  for  example,  are  the  walks 
around  the  city,  outside  the  moat ;  the  bridge 
over  the  Maine,  with  the  golden  cock  on  the 
cross,  which  the  poet  beheld  and  marvelled  at 
when  a  boy  ;  the  cloister  of  the  Barefooted 
Friars,  through  which  he  stole  with  mysterious 
awe  to  sit  by  the  oilcloth-covered  table  of  old 
Rector  Albrecht  ;  and  the  garden  in  which  his 
grandfather  walked  up  and  down  among  fruit- 
trees  and  rose-bushes,  in  long  morning-gown, 
black  velvet  cap,  and  the  antique  leather  gloves, 
which  he  annually  received  as  Mayor  on  Pipers- 


156  HYPERION, 

Doomsday,  representing  a  kind  of  middle  pep- 
sonage  between  Alcinous  and  Laertes.  Thus, 
O  Genius  !  are  thy  foot-prints  hallowed  ;  and 
the  star  shines  for  ever  over  the  place  of  thy  na 
tivity. 

"  Your  English  critics  may  rail  as  they  list," 
said  the  Baron,  while  he  and  Flemming  were 
returning  from  a  stroll  in  the  leafy  gardens  out 
side  the  moat  ;  "  but,  after  all,  Goethe  was  a 
magnificent  old  fellow.  Only  think  of  his  life  ; 
his  youth  of  passion,  alternately  aspiring  and 
desponding,  stormy,  impetuous,  headlong  ;  — 
his  romantic  manhood,  in  which  passion  assumes 
the  form  of  strength  ;  assiduous,  careful,  toiling, 
without  haste,  without  rest  ;  —  and  his  sublime 
old  age,  —  the  age  of  serene  and  classic  repose, 
where  he  stands  like  Atlas,  as  Claudian  has 
painted  him  in  the  Battle  of  the  Giants,  holding 
the  world  aloft  upon  his  head,  the  ocean-streams 
hard  frozen  in  his  hoary  locks." 

"  A  good  illustration  of  what  the  world  calls 
his  indifferentism. " 

"  And  do  you  know  I  rather  like  this  indiffer 
entism  ?  Did  you  never  have  the  misfortune  to 
live  in  a  community,  where  a  difficulty  in  the 
parish  seemed  to  announce  the  end  of  the  world  ? 


A    ROMANCE.  157 

or  to  know  one  of  the  benefactors  of  the  human 
race,  in  the  very  *  storm  and  pressure  period  J 
of  his  indiscreet  enthusiasm  ?  If  you  have,  I 
think  you  will  see  something  beautiful  in  the  calm 
and  dignified  attitude  which  the  old  philosopher 
assumes." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  his  admirers  had  not  a  little 
of  this  philosophic  coolness.  It  amuses  me  to 
read  the  various  epithets  which  they  apply  to 
him  :  —  The  Dear,  dear  Man  !  The  Life-enjoy 
ing  Man  !  The  All-sided  One  !  The  Repre 
sentative  of  Poetry  upon  Earth  !  The  Many- 
sided  Master-Mind  of  Germany  !  His  enemies 
rush  into  the  other  extreme,  and  hurl  at  him  the 
fierce  names  of  Old  Humbug  !  and  Old  Heathen  ! 
which  hit  like  pistol-bullets." 

"  I  confess,  he  was  no  saint." 

"  No  ;  his  philosophy  is  the  old  ethnic  phi 
losophy.  You  will  find  it  all  in  a  convenient  and 
concentrated  portable  form  in  Horace's  beauti 
ful  Ode  to  Thaliarcus.  What  I  most  object  to 
in  the  old  gentleman  is  his  sensuality." 

"  O,  nonsense  !  Nothing  can  be  purer  than  the 
Iphigenia  ;  it  is  as  cold  and  passionless  as  a  mar 
ble  statue." 

"  Very  true  ;  but  you  cannot  say  the  same  of 


158  HYPERION, 

some  of  the  Roman  Elegies,  and  of  that  monstrous 
book,  the  Elective  Affinities." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  Goethe  is  an  artist  ;  and 
looks  upon  all  things  as  objects  of  art  merely. 
Why  should  he  not  be  allowed  to  copy  in  words 
what  painters  and  sculptors  copy  in  colors  and  in 
marble  ?  " 

"  The  artist  shows  his  character  in  the  choice 
of  his  subject.  Goethe  never  sculptured  an 
Apollo,  nor  painted  a  Madonna.  He  gives  us 
only  sinful  Magdalens  and  rampant  Fauns.  He 
does  not  so  much  idealize  as  realize." 

"  He  only  copies  nature." 

"  So  did  the  artists  who  made  the  bronze 
lamps  of  Pompeii.  Would  you  hang  one  of 
those  in  your  hall  ?  To  say  that  a  man  is  an 
artist  and  copies  nature  is  not  enough.  There 
are  two  great  schools  of  art ;  the  imitative  and  the 
imaginative.  The  latter  is  the  most  noble,  and 
the  most  enduring  ;  and  Goethe  belonged  rather 
to  the  former.  Have  you  read  Menzel's  attack 
upon  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  truly  ferocious.  The  Silesian  hews 
into  him  lustily.  I  hope  you  do  not  take  sides 
with  him." 

"  By  no  means.     He  goes  too  far.    He  blames 


A    ROMANCE.  159 

the  poet  for  not  being  a  politician.  He  might  as 
well  blame  him  for  not  being  a  missionary  to  the 
Sandwich  Islands." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Eckermann  ?  " 
"  I  think  he  is  a  kind  of  German  Bos  well. 
Goethe  knew  he  was  drawing  his  portrait,  and 
sat  for  it  accordingly.  He  works  very  hard  to 
make  a  Saint  Peter  out  of  an  old  Jupiter,  as  the 
Catholics  did  at  Rome." 

"  Well,  call  him  Old   Humbug,  or  Old  Hea- 

i 

then,  or  what  you  please  ;  I  maintain,  that,  with 
all  his  errors  and  short-comings,  he  was  a  glori 
ous  specimen  of  a  man." 

"  He  certainly  was.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  he  was  in  some  points  like  Ben  Franklin,  — 
a  kind  of  rhymed  Ben  Franklin  ?  The  practical 
tendency  of  his  mind  was  the  same  ;  his  love 
of  science  was  the  same  ;  his  benignant,  philo 
sophic  spirit  was  the  same  ;  and  a  vast  number 
of  his  little  poetic  maxims  and  soothsayings  seem 
nothing  more  than  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Poor 
Richard,  versified." 

"  What  most  offends  me  is,  that  now  every 
German  jackass  must  have  a  kick  at  the  dead 
lion." 

"  And   every  one  who  passes  through  Weimar 


160  HYPERION, 

must  throw  a  book  upon  his  grave,  as  travellers 
did  of  old  a  stone  upon  the  grave  of  Manfredi, 
at  Benevento.  But,  of  all  that  has  been  said  or 
sung,  what  most  pleases  me  is  Heine's  Apologet 
ic,  if  I  may  so  call  it ;  in  which  he  says,  that 
the  minor  poets,  who  flourished  under  the  im 
perial  reign  of  Goethe,  '  resemble  a  young  forest, 
where  the  trees  first  show  their  own  magnitude 
after  the  oak  of  a  hundred  years,  whose  branch 
es  had  towered  above  and  overshadowed  them, 
has  fallen.  There  was  not  wanting  an  opposi 
tion  that  strove  against  Goethe,  this  majestic 
tree.  Men  of  the  most  warring  opinions  united 
themselves  for  the  contest.  The  adherents  of 
the  old  faith,  the  orthodox,  were  vexed  that 
in  the  trunk  of  the  vast  tree  no  niche  with  its 
holy  image  was  to  be  found  ;  nay,  that  even  the 
naked  Dryads  of  paganism  were  permitted  to 
play  their  witchery  there  ;  and  gladly,  with  con 
secrated  axe,  would  they  have  imitated  the  holy 
Boniface,  and  levelled  the  enchanted  oak  to  the 
ground.  The  followers  of  the  new  faith,  the 
apostles  of  Liberalism,  were  vexed,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  the  tree  could  not  serve  as  a  Lib 
erty  Tree,  or,  at  any  rate,  as  a  barricade.  In 
fact,  the  tree  was  too  high  ;  no  one  could  plant 


A    ROMANCE.  161 

the  red  cap  upon  its  summit,  or  dance  the  Car 
magnole  beneath  its  branches.  The  multitude, 
however,  venerated  this  tree  for  the  very  reason 
that  it  reared  itself  with  such  independent  gran 
deur,  and  so  graciously  filled  the  world  with  its 
odor,  while  its  branches,  streaming  magnificently 
joward  heaven,  made  it  appear  as  if  the  stars 
were  only  the  golden  fruit  of  its  wondrous  limbs.' 
Do  you  not  think  that  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful.  And  I  am  glad  to  see 
that  you  can  find  something  to  admire  in  my  fa 
vorite  author,  notwithstanding  his  frailties  ;  or,  to 
use  an  old  German  saying,  that  you  can  drive 
the  hens  out  of  the  garden  without  trampling 
down  the  beds." 

"Here  is  the  old  gentleman  himself!"  ex 
claimed  Flemmmg. 

"  Where  ?  "  cried  the  Baron,  as  if  for  the 
moment  he  expected  to  see  the  living  figure  of 
the  poet  walking  before  them. 

"  Here  at  the  window,  — that  full-length  cast. 
Excellent,  —  is  it  not  ?  He  is  dressed,  as  usual, 
m  his  long  yellow  nankeen  surtout,  with  a  white 
cravat  crossed  in  front.  What  a  magnificent 
nead !  and  what  a  posture  !  He  stands  like  a 
11 


162  HYPERION, 

tower  of  strength.  And,  by  Heavens  !  he  was 
nearly  eighty  years  old,  when  that  was  made." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  You  can  see  by  the  date  on  the  pedestal." 

u  You  are  right.  And  yet  how  erect  he  stands, 
with  his  square  shoulders  braced  back,  and  his 
hands  behind  him  !  He  looks  as  if  he  were 
standing  before  the  fire.  I  feel  tempted  to  put 
a  live  coal  into  his  hand,  it  lies  so  invitingly  half- 
open.  Gleim's  description  of  him,  soon  after 
he  went  to  Weimar,  is  very  different  from  this. 
Do  you  recollect  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not." 

"It  is  a  story  which  good  old  father  Gleim 
used  to  tell  with  great  delight.  He  was  one 
evening  reading  the  Gottingen  Musen-Almanach 
in  a  select  society  at  Weimar,  when  a  young  man 
came  in,  dressed  in  a  short,  green  shooting-jack 
et,  booted  and  spurred,  and  having  a  pair  of 
brilliant,  black,  Italian  eyes.  He,  in  turn,  offered 
to  read  ;  but  finding,  probably,  the  poetry  of  the 
Musen-Almanach  of  that  year  rather  too  insipid 
for  him,  he  soon  began  to  improvise  the  wildest 
and  most  fantastic  poems  imaginable,  and  in  all 
possible  forms  and  measures,  pretending  all  the 
while  to  read  from  the  book.  '  That  is  either 


A    ROMANCE.  163 

Goethe  or  the  Devil,'  said  good  old  father  Gleim 
to  Wieland,  who  sat  near  him.  To  which  the 
.'  Great  I  of  Osmannstadt '  replied,  — t  It  is  both, 
for  he  has  the  Devil  in  him  to-night ;  and  at  such 
times  he  is  like  a  wanton  colt,  that  flings  out 
before  and  behind,  and  you  will  do  well  not  to  go 
too  near  him  !  '  " 

"  Very  good  !  " 

"  And  now  that  noble  figure  is  but  mould. 
Only  a  few  months  ago,  those  majestic  eyes 
looked  for  the  last  time  on  the  light  of  a  pleasant 
spring  morning.  Calm,  like  a  god,  the  old  man 
sat  ;  and  with  a  smile  seemed  to  bid  farewell  to 
the  light  of  day,  on  which  he  had  gazed  for 
more  than  eighty  years.  Books  were  near  him, 
and  the  pen  which  had  just  dropped,  as  it  were, 
from  his  dying  fingers.  '  Open  the  shutters,  and 
let  in  more  light ! '  were  the  last  words  that  came 
from  those  lips.  Slowly  stretching  forth  his  hand, 
he  seemed  to  write  in  the  air  ;  and,  as  it  sank 
down  again  and  was  motionless,  the  spirit  of  the 
old  man  departed." 

"  And  yet  the  world  goes  on.  It  is  strange 
how  soon,  when  a  great  man  dies,  his  place  is 
filled  ;  and  so  completely,  that  he  seems  no 
longer  wanted.  But  let  us  step  in  here.  I  wish 
to  huv  that  cast." 


164  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE     DAYLIGHT     OP     THE     DWARFS,     AND     THE 
FALLING    STAR. 

AFTER  lingering  a  day  or  two  in  Frankfort, 
the  two  friends  struck  across  through  Hochhcim 
to  the  Rhine,  and  then  up  among  the  hills  of  the 
Rheingau  to  Schlangenbad,  where  they  tarried 
only  to  bathe  and  to  dine,  and  then  pursued 
their  way  to  Langenschwalbach.  The  town  lies 
in  a  valley,  with  gently  sloping  hills  around  it, 
and  long  avenues  of  poplars  leading  forth  into  the 
fields.  One  interminable  street  cuts  the  town 
in  twain,  and  there  are  old  houses  with  curious 
faces  carved  upon  their  fronts,  and  dates  of  the 
olden  time. 

Our  travellers  soon  sallied  forth  from  their 
hotel,  impatient  to  drink  the  strength-giving  wa 
ters  of  the  fountains.  They  continued  their  walk 


A    ROMANCE.  165 

lar  up  the  valley  under  the  poplars.  The  new 
grain  was  waving  in  the  fields ;  the  birds  singing 
in  the  trees  and  in  the  air  ;  and  every  thing  seem 
ed  glad,  save  a  poor  old  man,  who  came  totter 
ing  out  of  the  woods,  with  a  heavy  bundle  of 
sticks  on  his  shoulders. 

Returning  upon  their  steps,  they  passed  down 
the  valley  and  through  the  long  street  to  the 
tumble-down  old  Lutheran  church.  A  flight  of 
stone  steps  leads  from  the  street  to  the  green 
terrace  or  platform  on  which  the  church  stands, 
and  which,  in  ancient  times,  was  the  church-yard, 
or,  as  the  Germans  more  devoutly  say,  God's- 
acre  ;  where  generations  are  scattered  like  seeds, 
and  that  which  is  sown  in  corruption  shall  be 
raised  hereafter  in  incorruption.  On  the  steps 
stood  an  old  man,  — a  very  old  man,  —  holding 
a  little  girl  by  the  hand.  He  took  off  his  greasy 
cap  as  they  passed,  and  wished  them  good  day 
His  teeth  were  gone  ;  he  could  hardly  articulate 
a  syllable.  The  Baron  asked  him  how  old  the 
church  was.  He  gave  no  answer  ;  but  when 
the  question  was  repeated,  came  close  up  to 
them,  and,  taking  off  his  cap  again,  turned  his 
ear  attentively,  and  said  :  — 

"I  am  hard  of  hearing." 


166  HYPERION, 

"  Poor  old  man,"  said  Flemming;  "he  is  as 
much  a  ruin  as  the  church  we  are  entering.  It 
will  not  be  long  before  he,  too,  shall  be  sown  as 
seed  in  this  God's-acre  !  " 

The  little  girl  ran  into  a  house  close  at  hand, 
and  brought  out  the  great  key.  The  church-door 
swung  open,  and,  descending  a  few  steps,  they 
passed  through  a  low-roofed  passage  into  the 
church.  All  was  in  ruin.  The  gravestones  in 
the  pavement  were  started  from  their  places  ; 
the  vaults  beneath  yawned  ;  the  roof  above  was 
falling  piecemeal  ;  there  were  rents  in  the  old 
tower  ;  and  mysterious  passages,  and  side  doors 
with  crazy  flights  of  wooden  steps,  leading  down 
into  the  church-yard.  Amid  all  this  ruin,  one 
thing  only  stood  erect  ;  it  was  a  statue  of  a  knight 
in  armor,  standing  in  a  niche  under  the  pulpit. 

"  Who  is  this  ? "  said  Flemming  to  the  old 
sexton  ;  "  who  is  this,  that  stands  here  so  sol 
emnly  in  marble,  and  seems  to  be  keeping  guard 
over  the  dead  men  below  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  old  man  ;  "  but 
I  have  heard  my  grandfather  say  it  was  the  statue 
of  a  great  warrior  !  " 

"  There  is  history  for  you  !  "  exclaimed  the 
Baron.  "  There  is  fame  !  To  have  a  statue  of 


A    ROMANCE.  167 

marble,  and  yet  have  your  name  forgotten  by  the 
sexton  of  your  parish,  who  can  remember  only 
that  he  once  heard  his  grandfather  say  that  you 
were  a  great  warrior  !  " 

Flemming  made  no  reply,  for  he  was  thinking 
of  the  days,  when,  from  that  old  pulpit,  some  bold 
reformer  thundered  down  the  first  tidings  of  a  new 
doctrine,  and  the  roof  echoed  with  the  grand  old 
hymn  of  Martin  Luther. 

When  he  communicated  his  thoughts  to  the 
Baron,  the  only  answer  he  received  was  :  — 

"  After  all,  what  is  the  use  of  so  much  preach 
ing  ?  Do  you  think  the  fishes,  that  heard  the  ser 
mon  of  St.  Anthony,  were  any  better  than  those 
who  did  not  ?  I  commend  to  your  favorable 
notice  the  fish-sermon  of  this  saint,  as  recorded 
by  Abraham  £  Sancta  Clara.  You  will  find  it  in 
your  favorite  Wonder-Horn." 

Thus  passed  the  day  at  Langenschwalbach  ; 
and  the  evening  at  the  Allee-Saal  was  quite 
solitary  ;  for  as  yet  no  company  had  arrived 
to  fill  its  chambers,  or  sit  under  the  trees  before 
the  door.  The  next  morning  even  Flemming 
and  the  Baron  were  gone  ;  for  the  German's 
heart  was  beating  with  strong  desire  to  embrace 
his  sister  ;  and  the  heart  of  his  friend  cared  little 


168  HYPERION, 

whither  he  went,  sobeit  he  were  not  too  much 
alone. 

After  a  few  hours'  drive,  they  were  looking 
down  from  the  summit  of  a  hill  directly  upon 
the  house-tops  of  Ems.  There  it  lay,  deep 
sunk  in  the  hollow  beneath  them,  as  if  some  in 
habitant  of  Sirius,  like  him  spoken  of  in  Vol 
taire's  tale  of  Micromegas,  held  it  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  High  and  peaked  rise  the  hills 
that  throw  their  shadows  into  this  romantic  val 
ley,  and  at  their  base  winds  the  river  Lahn. 
Our  travellers  drove  through  the  one  long  street 
composed  entirely  of  hotels  and  lodging-houses. 
Sick  people  looked  out  of  the  windows,  as  they 
passed.  Others  were  walking  leisurely  up  and 
down,  beneath  the  few  decapitated  trees,  which 
represent  a  public  promenade  ;  and  a  boy,  with 
a  blue  frock  and  crimson  cap,  was  driving  three 
donkeys  down  the  street.  In  short,  they  were 
in  a  fashionable  watering-place  ;  as  yet  sprinkled 
only  by  a  few  pattering  drops  of  the  summer  rain 
of  strangers,  which  generally  follows  the  first  hot 
days. 

On  alighting  at  the  London  Hotel,  the  Baron 
found  —  not  his  sister,  but  only  a  letter  from  her, 
saying  she  had  changed  her  mind  and  gone  to  the 


A    ROMANCE.  169 

Baths  of  Franconia.  This  was  a  disappoint 
ment,  which  the  Baron  pocketed  with  the  letter, 
and  said  not  a  word  more  about  either.  It  was 
his  way,  —  his  philosophy  in  small  things  and 
great.  In  the  evening,  they  went  to  an  aesthetic 
tea,  at  the  house  of  the  Frau  Kranich,  the  wife 
of  a  rich  banker  of  Frankfort. 

"  I  must  tell  you  about  this  Frau  Kranich,'' 
said  the  Baron  to  Flemming,  on  the  way.  "  She 
is  a  woman  of  talent  and  beauty,  and  just  in  the 
prime  of  life  ;  but,  unfortunately,  very  ambi 
tious.  Her  mania  is,  to  make  a  figure  in  the 
fashionable  world  ;  and  to  this  end  she  married 
a  rich  banker  of  Frankfort,  old  enough  to  be  her 
father,  not  to  say  her  grandfather,  h'oping,  doubt 
less,  that  he  would  soon  die  ;  for,  if  ever  a  wo 
man  wished  to  be  a  widow,  she  is  that  woman. 
But  the  old  fellow  is  tough  and  won't  die. 
Moreover,  he  is  deaf,  and  crabbed,  and  penuri 
ous,  and  half  the  time  bedridden.  The  wife  is 
a  model  of  virtue,  notwithstanding  her  weakness. 
She  nurses  the  old  gentleman  as  if  he  wrere  a 
child.  And,  to  crown  all,  he  hates  society,  and 
will  not  hear  of  his  wife's  receiving  or  going  into 
company." 

"  How,  then,  can  she  give  soirees?"  asked 
Flemming. 


170  HYPERION, 

"  I  was  just  going  to  tell  you,"  continued  the 
Baron.  "  The  gay  lady  has  no  taste  for  long 
evenings  with  the  old  gentleman  in  the  back 
chamber,  —  for  being  thus  chained  like  a  crimi 
nal  under  Mezentius,  face  to  face  with  a  dead 
body.  So  she  puts  him  to  bed  first,  and  " 

"  Gives  him  opium." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  ;  and  then  gives  herself  a 
soiree,  without  his  knowing  any  thing  about  it. 
This  course  of  deception  is  truly  hateful  in  itself, 
and  must  be  particularly  so  to  her,  for  she  is  not 
a  low  or  an  immoral  woman  ;  but  one  of  those, 
who,  not  having  strength  enough  to  complete  the 
sacrifice  they  have  had  strength  enough  to  com 
mence,  are  tfetrayed  into  a  life  of  duplicity  and 
falsehood." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  were 
ushered  into  a  room  gaily  lighted  and  filled  with 
guests.  The  hostess  came  forward  to  receive 
them,  dressed  in  white,  and  sailing  down  the 
room  like  a  swan.  When  the  customary  salu 
tations  had  passed  and  Flemming  had  been  duly 
presented,  the  Baron  said,  not  without  a  certain 
degree  of  malice  :  — 

"  And,  my  dear  Fran  Kranich,  how  is  your 
good  husband  to  night  ?  " 


A    ROMANCE.  171 

This  question   was  about  as  discreet  as  a  can 
non-ball.     But  the  lady  replied,  in  the  simplicity 
of  her  heart,  and  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  :  — 

"  The  same  as  ever,  my  dear  Baron.  It  is 
astonishing  how  he  holds  out.  But  let  us  not 
talk  of  these  things  now.  I  must  introduce  your 
friend  to  his  countryman,  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Mississippi ;  alike  remarkable  for  his  wealth,  his 
modesty,  and  the  extreme  simplicity  of  his 
manners.  He  drives  only  six  horses.  Besides, 
he  is  known  as  a  man  of  learning  and  piety  ;  — 
has  his  private  chapel,  and  private  clergyman, 
who  always  preaches  against  the  vanity  of  world 
ly  riches.  He  has  also  a  private  secretary, 
whose  sole  duty  is  to  smoke  to  him,  that  he  may 
enjoy  the  aroma  of  Spanish  cigars,  without  the 
trouble  of  smoking." 

"  Decidedly  a  man  of  genius  !  " 

Here  Flemming  was  introduced  to  his  illustri 
ous  countryman  ;  a  person  who  seemed  to  con 
sist  chiefly  of  linen,  such  a  display  did  he  make 
of  collar,  bosom,  and  wristbands. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Flemming,  what  do  you  think 
of  that  Rembrandt  ? "  said  he,  pointing  to  a 
picture  on  the  wall.  "  Exquisite  picture  !  The 
grandeur  of  sentiment  and  splendor  of  chia- 


172  HYPERION, 

roscuro  are  of  the  first  order.  Just  observe  the 
liquidity  of  the  water,  and  the  silveriness  of 
the  clouds  !  Great  power  !  There  is  a  bra 
vura  of  handling  in  that  picture,  Sir,  which 
it  requires  the  eye  of  the  connoisseur  to  ap 
preciate." 

"  Yes,  a  most  undoubted  —  copy  ! " 

And  here  their  conversation  ended  ;  for  at  that 
moment  the  little  Moldavian  Prince  Jerkin  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  with  his  snuff-box 
as  usual  in  his  hand,  and  hurried  up  to  Flem- 
ming,  whom  he  had  known  in  Heidelberg.  He 
was  eager  to  let  every  one  know  that  he  spoke 
English,  and  in  his  haste  began  by  making  a 
mistake. 

"  Good  bye  !  Good  bye  !  Mr.  Flemming !  " 
said  he,  instead  of  good  evening.  "lam  rav 
ished  to  see  you  in  Ems.  Nice  place  ;  —  all 
that  there  is  of  most  nice.  I  drink  my  water  and 
am  good  !  Do  you  not  think  the  Frau  Kranich 
has  a  very  beautiful  leather  ?  " 

He  meant  skin.  Flemming  laughed  outright ; 
but  it  was  not  perceived  by  the  Prince,  because 
at  that  moment  he  was  pushed  aside,  in  the  rush 
of  a  gallopade,  and  Flemming  beheld  his  face 
no  more.  At  the  same  moment  the  Baron  in- 


A    ROMANCE.  173 

troduced  a  friend  of  his,  who  also  spoke  English 
and  said  :  — 

"  You  will  sup  with  me  to-night.  I  have 
some  Rhine-wine,  which  will  be  a  seduction 
to  you." 

Soon  after,  the  Baron  stood  with  an  impas 
sioned,  romantic  lady  leaning  on  his  arm,  exam 
ining  a  copy  of  Raphael's  Fornarina. 

"  Ach  !  I  wish  I  had  been  the  Fornarina," 
sighed  the  impassioned,  romantic  lady. 

"  Then,  my  dear  Madam,"  replied  the  Baron, 
"  I  wish  I  had  been  Raphael." 

And  so  likewise  said  to  himself  a  very  tall  man 
with  fiery  red  hair  and  fancy  whiskers,  who  was 
waltzing  round  and  round  in  one  spot,  and  in  a 
most  extraordinary  waistcoat  ;  thus  representing 
a  fiery  floating-light,  to  warn  men  of  the  hidden 
rocks  on  which  the  breath  of  vanity  drives  them 
shipwreck.  At  length,  his  partner,  tired  of  spin 
ning,  sank  upon  a  sofa,  like  a  child's  top,  when  it 
reels  and  falls. 

"  You  do  not  like  the  waltz  ?  "  said  an  elderly 
French  gentleman,  remarking  the  expression  of 
Flemming's  countenance. 

"  O,  yes  ;  among  the  figurantes  of  the  opera. 
But  I  confess,  it  sometimes  makes  me  shudder  to 


174  HYPERION, 

see  a  young  rake  clasp  his  arms  round  the  waist 
of  a  pure  and  innocent  girl.  What  would  you 
say,  were  you  to  see  him  sitting  on  a  sofa  with 
his  arms  round  your  wife  ?" 

"  Mere  prejudice  of  education,"  replied  the 
French  gentleman.  "  I  know  that  situation.  I 
have  read  all  about  it  in  the  Bibliotheque  de 
Romans  Choisis  ! " 

And  merrily  went  the  dance  ;  and  bright  eyes 
and  flushed  cheeks  were  not  wanting  among  the 
dancers  ; 

"  And  they  waxed  red,  and  waxed  warm, 
And  rested,  panting,  arm  in  arm  "  ; 

and  the  Strauss-waltzes  sounded  pleasantly  in  the 
ears  of  Flemming,  who,  though  he  never  ds  need, 
yet,  like  Henry  of  Ofterdingen,  in  the  romance 
of  Novalis,  thought  to  music.  The  wheeling 
waltz  set  the  wheels  of  his  fancy  going.  And 
thus  the  moments  glided  on,  and  the  footsteps 
of  Time  were  not  heard  amid  the  sound  of  music 
and  voices. 

But  suddenly  this  scene  of  gayety  was  inter 
rupted.  The  door  opened  wide  ;  and  the  short 
figure  of  a  gray-haired  old  man  presented  itself, 
with  a  flushed  countenance  and  wild  eyes.  He 
was  but  half- dressed,  and  in  his  hand  held  a 


A    ROMANCE. 

silver  candlestick  without  a  light.  A  sheet  was 
wound  round  his  head,  like  a  turban  ;  and  he 
tottered  forward  with  a  vacant,  bewildered  look, 
exclaiming  :  — 

*'  I  am  Mahomet,  the  king  of  the  Jews  !  " 

At  the  same  moment  he  fell  in  a  swoon,  and 
was  borne  out  of  the  room  by  the  servants. 
Flemming  looked  at  the  lady  of  the  festival,  and 
she  was  deadly  pale.  For  a  moment,  all  was  con 
fusion  ;  and  the  dance  and  the  music  stopped. 
The  impression  produced  on  the  company  was 
at  once  ludicrous  and  awful.  They  tried  in  vain 
to  rally.  The  whole  society  was  like  a  dead 
body,  from  which  the  spirit  has  departed.  Ere 
long,  the  guests  had  all  dispersed,  and  left  the 
lady  of  the  mansion  to  her  mournful,  expiring 
lamps,  and  still  more  mournful  reflections. 

"  Truly,"  said  Flemming  to  the  Baron,  as 
they  wended  their  way  homeward,  "  this  seems 
not  like  reality  ;  but  like  one  of  the  sharp  con 
trasts  we  find  in  novels.  Who  shall  say,  after 
this,  that  there  is  not  more  romance  in  real  life 
than  we  find  written  in  books  ?  " 

"  Not  more  romance,"  said  the  Baron,  "  but 
a  different  romance." 

A  still  more  tragic  scene  had  been  that  even- 


176  HYPERION, 

ing  enacted  in  Heidelberg.  Just  as  the  sun  set, 
two  female  figures  walked  along  the  romantic 
woodland  pathway,  leading  to  the  Angel's  Mead 
ow,  a  little  green  opening  on  the  brow  of  one  of 
the  high  hills  which  see  themselves  in  the  Neckar 
and  hear  the  solemn  bells  of  Kloster-Neuburg. 
The  evening  shadows  were  falling  broad  and 
long  ;  and  the  cuckoo  began  to  sing. 

11  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  said  the  eldest  of  the 
two  figures,  repeating  an  old  German  popular 

rhyme,  — 

"  '  Cuckoo !  cuckoo  ' 

Tell  me  true, 

Tell  me  fair  and  fine, 

How  long  must  I  unmarried  pine? '  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  evil  spirit,  that  spoke  in 
the  person  of  Madeleine  ;  and  the  pale  and  shrink 
ing  figure,  that  walked  by  her  side,  and  listened 
to  those  words,  was  Emma  of  Ilmenau.  A  young 
man  joined  them,  where  the  path  turns  into  the 
thick  woodlands  ;  and  they  disappeared  among 
the  shadowy  branches.  It  was  the  Polish  Count. 

The  forget-me-nots  looked  up  to  heaven  with 
their  meek  blue  eyes,  from  their  home  in  the 
Angel's  Meadow.  Calmly  stood  the  mountain 
of  All-Saints,  in  its  majestic,  holy  stillness  ;  — 
the  river  flowed  so  far  below,  that  the  murmur 


A    ROMANCE.  .77 

of  its  waters  was  not  heard  ;  —  there  was  not  a 
sigh  of  the  evening  wind  among  the  leaves,  —  not 
a  sound  upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air  ;  —  and  yet 
that  night  there  fell  a  star  from  heaven ! 


17S  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  PARTING. 

IT  was  now  that  season  of  the  year,  which  an 
old  English  writer  calls  the  amiable  month  of 
June,  and  at  that  hour  of  the  day,  when,  face  to 
face,  the  rising  moon  beholds  the  setting  sun. 
As  yet  the  stars  were  few  in  heaven.  But,  after 
the  heat  of  the  day,  the  coolness  and  the  twilight 
descended  like  a  benediction  upon  the  earth,  by 
all  those  gentle  sounds  attended  which  are  the 
meek  companions  of  the  night. 

Flemming  and  the  Baron  had  passed  the  after 
noon  at  the  Castle.  They  had  rambled  once  more 
together,  and  for  the  last  time,  over  the  magnifi 
cent  ruin.  On  the  morrow  they  were  to  part, 
perhaps  for  ever.  The  Baron  was  going  to  Ber 
lin,  to  join  his  sister  ;  and  Flemming,  driven  for 
ward  by  the  restless  spirit  within  him,  longed  once 
more  for  a  change  of  scene,  and  was  to  start  for 


•  A    ROMANCE.  179 

the  Tyrol  and  Switzerland.  Alas  !  he  never  said 
to  the  passing  hour,  "  Stay,  for  thou  art  fair  !  " 
but  reached  forward  into  the  dark  future,  with 
unsatisfied  longings  and  aimless  desires  that  were 
never  still. 

As  the  day  was  closing,  they  sat  down  on  the 
terrace  of  Elizabeth's  Garden.  The  sun  had 
set  beyond  the  blue  Alsatian  hills  ;  and  on  the 
valley  of  the  Rhine  fell  the  purple  mist,  like  the 
mantle  of  the  departing  prophet  from  his  fiery 
chariot.  Over  the  castle  walls  and  the  trees  of 
the  garden  rose  the  large  moon  ;  and  between 
the  contending  daylight  and  moonlight  there  were 
as  yet  no  shadows.  But  at  length  the  shadows 
came,  —  transparent  and  faint  outlines,  that  deep 
ened  into  form.  In  the  valley  below  only  the 
river  gleamed,  like  steel ;  and  here  and  there  the 
lamps  were  lighted  in  the  town.  Solemnly  stood 
the  leafy  linden-trees  in  the  garden  near  them, 
their  trunks  in  darkness  and  their  summits  bronzed 
with  moonlight  ;  and  in  his  niche  in  the  great 
round  tower,  overhung  with  ivy,  like  a  majestic 
phantom,  stood  the  gray  statue  of  Louis,  with  his 
venerable  beard,  and  shirt  of  mail,  and  flowing 
mantle  ;  and  the  mild,  majestic  countenance  look 
ed  forth  into  the  silent  night,  as  the  countenance 


180  HYPERION, 

of  a  seer  who  reads  the  stars.  At  intervals,  the 
wind  of  the  summer  night  passed  through  the 
ruined  castle  and  the  trees,  and  they  sent  forth  a 
sound  as  if  Nature  were  sighing  in  her  dreams  ; 
and  for  a  moment,  overhead,  the  broad  leaves 
gently  clashed  together,  like  hrazen  cymbals,  with 
a  tinkling  sound  ;  and  then  all  was  still,  save  the 
sweet,  passionate  song  of  nightingales,  that  no 
where  sing  more  sweetly  than  in  the  gardens  of 
Heidelberg  Castle. 

The  hour,  the  scene,  and  the  near-approaching 
separation  of  the  two  young  friends  had  filled 
their  hearts  with  a  pleasant,  though  at  the  same 
time  not  painless  excitement.  They  had  been 
conversing  about  the  magnificent  old  ruin,  and  the 
ages  in  which  it  had  been  built,  and  the  vicissi 
tudes  of  time  and  war,  that  had  battered  down  its 
walls,  and  left  it  "  tenantless,  save  to  the  cranny- 
ing  wind." 

"  How  sorrowful  and  sublime  is  the  face  of 
that  statue  yonder  !  "  said  Flemming.  "  It  re 
minds  me  of  the  old  Danish  hero  Beowulf;  for 
4  careful,  sorrowing,  he  seeth  in  his  son's  bower 
the  wine-hall  deserted,  the  resort  of  the  wind, 
noiseless  ;  the  knight  sleepeth ;  the  warrior  lieth 
in  darkness  ;  there  is  no  noise  of  the  harp,  no 
iov  in  the  dwellings,  as  there  was  before.' " 


A    ROMANCE.  181 

"  Even  as  you  say,"  replied  the  Baron  ;  "but 
it  often  astonishes  me,  that,  coming  from  that 
fresh  green  world  of  yours  beyond  the  sea,  you 
should  feel  so  much  interest  in  these  old  things  ; 
nay,  at  times,  seem  so  to  have  drunk  in  their 
spirit,  as  really  to  live  in  the  times  of  old.  For 
my  part,  I  do  not  see  what  charm  there  is  in  the 
pale  and  wrinkled  countenance  of  the  Past,  so  to 
entice  the  soul  of  a  young  man.  It  seems  to  me 
like  falling  in  love  with  one's  grandmother.  Give 
me  the  Present,  —  warm,  glowing,  palpitating 
with  life.  She  is  my  mistress  ;  and  the  Future 
stands  waiting  like  my  wife  that  is  to  be, — for 
whom,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  care  very  little  just 
now.  Indeed,  my  friend,  I  wish  you  would  take 
more  heed  of  this  philosophy  of  mine  ;  and  not 
waste  the  golden  hours  of  youth  in  vain  regrets 
for  the  past,  and  indefinite,  dim  longings  for  the 
future.  Youth  comes  but  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  Therefore,"  said  Flemming,  "  let  us  so  en 
joy  it  as  to  be  still  young  when  we  are  old.  For 
my  part,  I  grow  happier  as  I  grow  older.  When 
I  compare  my  sensations  and  enjoyments  now 
with  what  they  were  ten  years  ago,  the  compari 
son  is  vastly  in  favor  of  the  present.  Much  of 
the  fever  and  fretfulness  of  life  is  over.  The 


182  HYPERION, 

world  and  I  look  each  other  more  calmly  In  the 
face.  My  mind  is  more  self-possessed.  It  ha° 
done  me  good  to  be  somewhat  parched  by  the 
heat  and  drenched  by  the  rain  of  life." 

"  Now  you  speak  like  an  old  philosopher,"  an 
swered  the  Baron,  laughing.  "  But  you  deceive 
yourself.  I  never  knew  a  more  restless,  feverish 
spirit  than  yours.  Do  not  think  you  have  gained 
the  mastery  yet.  You  -are  only  riding  at  anchor 
here  in  an  eddy  of  the  stream  ;  you  will  soon  be 
swept  away  again  in  the  mighty  current  and  whirl 
of  a(  cident.  Do  not  trust  this  momentary  calm. 
I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself. 
Thrve  is  something  Faust-like  in  you  ;  you  would 
fain  grasp  the  highest  and  the  deepest,  and  '  reel 
from  desire  to  enjoyment,  and  in  enjoyment  lan 
guish  for  desire.'  When  a  momentary  change  of 
feeling  comes  over  you,  you  think  the  change  per 
manent,  and  thus  live  in  constant  self-deception." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Flemming,  "  there  may  be 
some  truth  in  what  you  say.  There  are  times 
when  my  soul  is  restless  ;  and  a  voice  sounds 
within  me,  like  the  trump  of  the  archangel,  and 
thoughts  that  were  buried,  long  ago,  come  out  of 
their  graves.  At  such  times  my  favorite  occupa 
tions  and  pursuits  no  longer  charm  me.  The 
quiet  face  of  Nature  seems  to  mock  me." 


A    ROMANCE.  183 

"  There  certainly  are  seasons,"  replied  the 
Baron,  "  when  Nature  seems  not  to  sympathize 
with  her  beloved  children.  She  sits  there  so 
eternally  calm  and  self-possessed,  so  very  moth 
erly  and  serene,  and  cares  so  little  whether  the 
heart  of  her  child  breaks  or  not,  that  at  times  I 
almost  lose  my  patience.  About  that,  too,  she 
cares  so  little,  that,  out  of  sheer  obstinacy,  I  be 
come  good-humored  again,  and  then  she  smiles." 

"  I  think  we  must  confess,  however,"  con 
tinued  Flemming,  "  that  all  this  springs  from  our 
own  imperfection,  not  from  hers.  How  beautiful 
is  this  green  world  which  we  inhabit  !  See  yon 
der,  how  the  moonlight  mingles  with  the  mist  ! 
What  a  glorious  night  is  this  !  Truly,  every  man 
has  a  Paradise  around  him,  until  he  sins,  and  the 
angel  of  an  accusing  conscience  drives  him  from 
his  Eden.  And  even  then  there  are  holy  hours, 
when  this  angel  sleeps,  and  man  comes  back, 
and,  with  the  innocent  eyes  of  a  child,  looks  into 
his  lost  Paradise  again,  —  into  the  broad  gates 
and  rural  solitudes  of  Nature.  I  feel  this  often. 
We  have  much  to  enjoy  in  the  quiet  and  retire 
ment  of  our  own  thoughts.  Boisterous  mirth  and 
loud  laughter  are  not  my  mood.  I  love  that  tran 
quillity  of  soul,  in  which  we  feel  the  blessing  of 


184  HYPERION, 

existence,  and  which  in  itself  is  a  prayer  and  a 
thanksgiving.  I  find,  however,  that,  as  I  grow  old 
er,  I  love  the  country  less,  and  the  town  more." 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  Baron  ;  "  and  pres 
ently  you  will  love  the  town  less  and  the  country 
more.  Say  at  once,  that  you  have  an  undefined 
longing  for  both  ;  and  prefer  town  or  country, 
according  to  the  mood  you  are  in.  I  think  a 
man  must  be  of  a  very  quiet  and  happy  nature, 
who  can  long  endure  the  country  ;  and,  more 
over,  very  well  contented  with  his  own  insignifi 
cant  person,  very  self-complacent,  to  be  continu 
ally  occupied  with  himself  and  his  own  thoughts. 
To  say  the  least,  a  town  life  makes  one  more 
tolerant  and  liberal  in  one's  judgment  of  others. 
One  is  not  eternally  wrapped  up  in  self-contem 
plation  ;  which,  after  all,  is  only  a  more  holy  kind 
of  vanity." 

In  conversation  like  this,  the  hours  glided  away; 
till  at  length,  from  the  Giant's  Tower,  the  castle 
clock  struck  twelve,  with  a  sound  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  Middle  Ages.  Like  watchmen 
from  their  belfries,  the  city 'clocks  answered  it, 
one  by  one.  Then  distant  and  muffled  sounds 
were  heard.  Inarticulate  words  seemed  to  blot 
the  foggy  air,  as  if  written  on  wet  paper.  These 


A    ROMANCE.  185 

were  the  bells  of  Handschuhsheirner,  and  of  other 
villages  on  the  broad  plain  of  the  Rhine  and 
among  the  hills  of  the  Odenwald  ;  mysterious 
sounds,  that  seemed  not  of  this  world. 

Beneath  them,  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills,  lay 
the  valley, — fathomless,  black,  impenetrable. 
Above  were  the  cloistered  stars,  that,  nun-like, 
walk  the  holy  aisles  of  heaven.  The  city  was 
asleep  in  the  valley  below  ;  all  asleep  and  silent, 
save  the  clocks,  that  had  just  struck  twelve,  and 
the  veering,  golden  weathercocks,  that  were  swim 
ming  in  the  moonlight,  like  golden  fishes  in  a  glass 
vase.  And  again  the  wind  of  the  summer  night 
passed  through  the  old  castle,  and  the  trees,  and 
the  nightingales  recorded  under  the  dark,  shad 
owy  leaves,  and  the  heart  of  Flemming  was  full. 

When  he  had  retired  to  his  chamber,  a  feeling 
of  utter  loneliness  came  over  him.  The  night 
before  one  begins  a  journey  is  always  a  dismal 
night  ;  for,  as  Byron  says, 

"  In  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple  !  " 

and  how  much  more  so  when  the  place  and  peo 
ple  are  pleasant  !  as  was  the  case  with  those  that 
Flemming  was  now  leaving.  No  wonder  he  was 
sad  and  sleepless.  Thoughts  came  and  went, 


186  HYPERION. 

and  bright  and  gloomy  fancies,  and  dreams  and 
visions,  and  sweet  faces  looked  under  his  closed 
eyelids,  and  vanished  away,  and  came  again,  and 
again  departed.  He  heard  the  clock  strike  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  said,  "  Another  hour  is  gone." 
At  length  the  birds  began  to  sing  ;  and  ever  and 
anon  the  cock  crew.  He  arose,  and  looked  forth 
into  the  gray  dawn  ;  and  before  him  lay  the  city 
he  was  so  soon  to  leave,  all  white  and  ghastly, 
like  a  city  that  had  arisen  from  its  grave. 

"  All  things  must  change,"  said  he  to  the 
Baron,  as  he  embraced  him,  and  held  him  by  the 
hand.  "  Friends  must  be  torn  asunder,  and 
swept  along  in  the  current  of  events,  to  see  each 
other  seldom,  and  perchance  no  more.  For  ever 
and  ever  in  the  eddies  of  time  and  accident  we 
whirl  away.  Besides  which,  some  of  us  have  a 
perpetual  motion  in  our  wooden  heads,  as  Wo- 
denblock  had  in  his  wooden  leg  ;  and  like  him  we 
travel  on,  without  rest  or  sleep,  and  have  hardly 
time  to  take  a  friend  by  the  hand  in  passing  ;  and 
at  length  are  seen  hurrying  through  some  distant 
land,  worn  to  a  skeleton,  and  all  unknown." 


BOOK  THE  THIRD. 


"  Take  away  the  lights,  too ; 
The  moon  lends  me  too  much  to  find  my  fears, 
And  those  devotions  I  am  now  to  pay 
Are  written  in  my  heart,  not  in  thy  book ; 
And  I  shall  read  them  there  without  a  taper." 


BOOK    THE    THIRD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SUMMER-TIME. 

THEY  were  right,  —  those  old  German  Minne 
singers,  —  to  sing  the  pleasant  summer-time  ! 
What  a  time  it  is  !  How  June  stands  illuminated 
in  the  calendar  !  The  windows  are  all  wide 
open ;  only  the  Venetian  blinds  closed.  Here 
and  there  a  long  streak  of  sunshine  streams  in 
through  a  crevice.  We  hear  the  low  sound  of 
the  wind  among  the  trees  ;  and,  as  it  swells  and 
freshens,  the  distant  doors  clap  to,  with  a  sudden 
sound.  The  trees  are  heavy  with  leaves  ;  and 
the  gardens  full  of  blossoms,  red  and  white.  The 
whole  atmosphere  is  laden  with  perfume  and  sun 
shine.  The  birds  sing.  The  cock  struts  about, 
and  crows  loftily.  Insects  chirp  in  the  grass. 
Yellow  buttercups  stud  the  green  carpet  like 


190  HYPERION, 

golden  buttons,  and  the  red  blossoms  of  the  clo 
ver  like  rubies.  The  elm-trees  reach  their  long, 
pendulous  branches  almost  to  the  ground.  White 
clouds  sail  aloft  ;  and  vapors  fret  the  blue  sky 
with  silver  threads.  The  white  village  gleams 
afar  against  the  dark  hills.  Through  the  meadow 
winds  the  river,  —  careless,  indolent.  It  seems 
to  love  the  country,  and  is  in  no  haste  to  reach 
the  sea.  The  bee  only  is  at  work,  —  the  hot 
and  angry  bee.  All  things  else  are  at  play  ;  he 
never  plays,  and  is  vexed  that  any  one  should. 

People  drive  out  from  town  to  breathe,  and  to 
be  happy.  Most  of  them  have  flowers  in  their 
hands  ;  bunches  of  apple-blossoms,  and  still 
oftener  lilacs.  Ye  denizens  of  the  crowded  city, 
how  pleasant  to  you  is  the  change  from  the  sultry 
streets  to  the  open  field,  fragrant  with  clover- 
blossoms  !  how  pleasant  the  fresh,  breezy  coun 
try  air,  dashed  with  brine  from  the  meadows  ! 
how  pleasant,  above  all,  the  flowers, — the  mani 
fold,  beautiful  flowers  ! 

It  is  no  longer  day.  Through  the  trees  rises 
the  red  moon,  and  the  stars  are  scarcely  seen. 
In  the  vast  shadow  of  night,  the  coolness  and  the 
dews  descend.  I  sit  at  the  open  window  to  enjoy 
them  ;  and  hear  only  the  voice  of  the  summer 


A    ROMANCE.  19l 

wind.  Like  black  hulks,  the  shadows  of  the 
great  trees  ride  at  anchor  on  the  billowy  sea  of 
grass.  I  cannot  see  the  red  and  blue  flowers, 
but  I  know  that  they  are  there.  Far  away  in  the 
meadow  gleams  the  silver  Charles.  The  tramp 
•>f  horses'  hoofs  sounds  from  the  wooden  bridge. 
Then  all  is  still,  save  the  continuous  wind  of  the 
summer  night.  Sometimes  I  know  not  if  it  be 
the  wind  or  the  sound  of  the  neighbouring  sea. 
The  village  clock  strikes  ;  and  I  feel  that  I  am 
not  alone. 

How  different  is  it  in  the  city  !  It  is  late,  and 
the  crowd  is  gone.  You  step  out  upon  the  bal 
cony,  and  lie  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  cool, 
dewy  night,  as  if  you  folded  her  garments  about 
you.  Beneath  lies  the  public  walk  with  trees, 
like  a  fathomless,  black  gulf,  into  whose  silent 
darkness  the  spirit  plunges  and  floats  away,  with 
some  beloved  spirit  clasped  in  its  embrace.  The 
lamps  are  still  burning  up  and  down  the  long 
street.  People  go  by,  with  grotesque  shadows, 
now  foreshortened,  and  now  lengthening  away  into 
the  darkness  and  vanishing,  while  a  new  one 
springs  up  behind  the  walker,  and  seems  to  pass 
him,  revolving  like  the  sail  of  a  windmill.  The 
iron  gates  of  the  park  shut  with  a  jangling  clang. 


192  HYPERION, 

There  are  footsteps  and  loud  voices  ;  —  a  tu 
mult,  —  a  drunken  brawl,  —  an  alarm  of  fire  ;  — 
then  silence  again.  And  now  at  length  the  city 
is  asleep,  and  we  can  see  the  night.  The  belated 
moon  looks  over  the  roofs,  and  finds  no  one  to 
welcome  her.  The  moonlight  is  broken.  It 
lies  here  and  there  in  the  squares,  and  the  open 
ing  of  streets,  —  angular,  like  blocks  of  white 
marble. 


Under  such  a  green,  triumphal  arch,  O  Readei, 
with  the  odor  of  flowers  about  thee,  and  the  song 
of  birds,  shalt  thou  pass  onward  into  the  en 
chanted  land,  as  through  the  Ivory  Gate  of 
dreams  !  And  as  a  prelude  and  majestic  march, 
one  sweet  human  voice,  coming  from  the  bosom 
of  the  Alps,  sings  this  sublime  ode,  which  the 
Alpine  echoes  repeat  afar. 

"  Come,  golden  Evening  !   in  the  west 

Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun, 
And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 

O'er  all  the  mountain-tops.     'T  is  done ;  — 
The  tempest  ceases ;  bold  and  bright, 

The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hill ; 
Down  sinks  the  sun  ;  on  presses  night ;  -— 

Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still ! 


A.    ROMANCE.  193 

"  There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit ;  —  spread 

The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet; 
And  mark  how  calmly,  overhead, 

The  stars,  like  saints  in  glory,  meet. 
While  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 

Methinks  I  muse  on  Nature's  tomb, 
And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 

Step  through  the  silent  gloom. 

"  All  in  a  moment,  crash  on  crash, 

From  precipice  to  precipice, 
An  avalanche's  ruins  dash 

Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss, 
Invisible  ;  the  car  alone 

Pursues  the  uproar  till  it  dies ; 
Echo  to  echo,  groan  for  groan, 

From  deep  to  deep,  replies. 

''  Silence  again  the  darkness  seals, 

Darkness  that  may  be  felt ;  —  but  soon 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 

The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon 
In  half-eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn, 

Yet  o'er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a  morn, 

With  her  awakening  beam. 

"  Ah  !  at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 

Unreal  mockeries  appear ; 
With  blacker  shadows,  ghastlier  lights, 
Emerging  as  she  climbs  the  sphere; 

13 


194  HYPERION, 

A  crowd  of  apparitions  pale  ! 

I  hold  my  breath  in  chill  suspense, 
They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail, 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 

"  I  breathe  again,  I  freely  breathe ; 

Thee,  Leman's  Lake,  once  more  I  trace, 
Like  Dian's  crescent  far  beneath 

As  beautiful  as  Dian's  face : 
Pride  of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth ! 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I  love, 
Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  earth, 

Looks  fairer  than  above. 

M  Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I  stray ; 

The  trance  of  poesy  is  o'er, 
And  I  am  here  at  dawn  of  day, 

Gazing  on  mountains  as  before, 
Where  all  the  strange  mutations  wrought 

Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind ; 
For,  in  that  fairy  land  of  thought, 

Whate'er  I  seek,  1  find." 


A    ROMANCE.  195 


CHAPTER  II. 

FOOT-TRAVELLING. 

TELL  me,  my  soul,  why  art  thou  restless  t 
Why  dost  thou  look  forward  to  the  future  with 
such  strong  desire  ?  The  present  is  thine,  — 
and  the  past ;  —  and  the  future  shall  be  !  O,  that 
thou  didst  look  forward  to  the  great  hereafter 
with  half  the  longing  wherewith  thou  longest  for 
an  earthly  future,  —  which  a  few  days,  at  most, 
will  bring  thee  !  to  the  meeting  of  the  dead,  as 
to  'the  meeting  of  the  absent  !  Thou  glorious 
spirit-land  !  O,  that  I  could  behold  thee  as  thou 
art,  —  the  region  of  life,  and  light,  and  love,  and 
the  dwelling-place  of  those  beloved  ones  whose 
being  has  flowed  onward,  like  a  silver-clear  stream 
into  the  solemn-sounding  main,  into  the  ocean  of 
Eternity  ! 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  the 
soul  of  Flemming,  as  he  lay  in  utter  solitude  and 


196  HYPERION, 

silence  on  the  rounded  summit  of  one  of  the 
mountains  of  the  Furca  Pass,  and  gazed,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  ardent  longing  in  his  heart, 
into  the  blue,  swimming  heaven  overhead,  and  at 
the  glaciers  and  snowy  mountain-peaks  around 
him.  Highest  and  whitest  of  all  stood  the  peak 
of  the  Jungfrau,  which  seemed  near  him,  though 
it  rose  afar  off  from  the  bosom  of  the  Lauter- 
brunner  Thai.  There  it  stood,  holy  and  high 
and  pure,  the  bride  of  heaven,  veiled  and  clothed 
in  white,  and  lifting  the  thoughts  of  the  beholder 
heavenward.  O,  he  little  thought  then,  as  he 
gazed  at  it  with  longing  and  delight,  how  soon  a 
form  was  to  arise  in  his  own  soul,  as  holy,  and 
high,  and  pure  as  this,  and  like  this  point  heaven 
ward  ! 

Thus  lay  the  traveller  on  the  mountain  summit, 
reposing  his  weary  limbs  on  the  short,  brown 
grass,  which  more  resembled  moss  than  grass. 
He  had  sent  his  guide  forward,  that  he  might  be 
alone.  His  soul  within  him  was  wild  with  a  fierce 
and  painful  delight.  The  mountain  air  excited 
him  ;  the  mountain  solitudes  enticed,  yet  mad 
dened  him.  Every  peak,  every  sharp,  jagged 
iceberg,  seemed  to  pierce  him.  The  silence  was 
awful  and  sublime.  It  was  like  that  in  the  soul 


A    ROMANCE.  197 

of  a  dying  man,  when  he  hears  no  more  the 
sounds  of  earth.  He  seemed  to  be  laying  aside 
his  earthly  garments.  The  heavens  were  near 
unto  him  ;  hut  between  him  and  heaven  every  evil 
deed  he  had  done  arose  gigantic,  like  those 
mountain-peaks,  and  breathed  an  icy  breath  upon 
him.  O,  let  not  the  soul  that  suffers  dare  to 
look  Nature  in  the  face,  where  she  sits  majesti 
cally  aloft  in  the  solitude  of  the  mountains  !  for 
her  face  is  hard  and  stern,  and  turns  not  in  com 
passion  upon  her  weak  and  erring  child.  It  is 
the  countenance  of  an  accusing  archangel,  who 
summons  us  to  judgment.  In  the  valley  she 
wears  the  countenance  of  a  Virgin  Mother,  look 
ing  at  us  with  tearful  eyes,  and  a  face  of  pity 
and  love  ! 

But  yesterday  Flemming  had  come  up  the  val 
ley  of  the  Saint  Gothard  Pass,  through  Amsteg, 
where  the  Kerstelenbach  comes  dashins;  down 

w 

the  Maderaner  Thai,  from  its  snowy  cradle  over 
head.  The  road  is  steep,  and  runs  on  zigzag 
terraces.  The  sides  of  the  mountains  are  barren 
cliffs  ;  and  from  their  cloud-capped  summits, 
unheard  amid  the  roar  of  the  great  torrent  below, 
come  streams  of  snow-white  foam,  leaping  from 
rock  to  rock,  like  the  mountain  chamois.  As 


198  HYPERION, 

you  advance,  the  scene  grows  wilder  and  more 
desolate.  There  is  not  a  tree  in  sight,  —  not  a 
human  habitation.  Clouds,  black  as  midnight, 
lower  upon  you  from  the  ravines  above  ;  and  the 
mountain  torrent  beneath  is  but  a  sheet  of  foam, 
and  sends  up  an  incessant  roar.  A  sudden  turn 
in  the  road  brings  you  in  sight  of  a  lofty  bridge, 
stepping  from  cliff  to  cliff  with  a  single  stride. 
A  mighty  cataract  howls  beneath  it,  like  an  evil 
spirit,  and  fills  the  air  with  mist ;  and  the  moun 
tain  wind  claps  its  hands  and  shrieks  through  the 
narrow  pass,  Ha  !  ha  !  This  is  the  Devil's 
Bridge.  It  leads  the  traveller  across  the  fear 
ful  chasm,  and  through  a  mountain  gallery  into 
the  broad,  green,  silent  meadow  of  Andermath. 

Even  the  sunny  morning,  which  followed  this 
gloomy  day,  had  not  chased  the  desolate  impres 
sion  from  the  soul  of  Flemming.      His   excite 
ment  increased  as  he  lost  himself  more  and  more 
among  the  mountains  ;  and  now,  as  he  lay  alone 
on  the  summit  of  the  sunny  hill,  with  only  gla 
ciers  and  snowy  peaks  about  him,  his  soul,  as  1 
have    said,   was   wild   with   a  fierce  and    painful 
delight. 

A  human  voice  broke  his  reverie.    He  looked, 
and  beheld,  at  a  short   distance  from  him,   the 


A    ROMANCE. 

athletic  form  of  a  mountain  herdsman,  who  was 
approaching  the  spot  where  he  lay.  He  was  a 
young  man,  clothed  in  a  rustic  garb,  and  holding 
a  long  staff  in  his  hand.  When  Flemming  rose, 
he  stood  still,  and  gazed  at  him,  as  if  he  loved 
the  face  of  man,  even  of  a  stranger,  and  longed 
to  hear  a  human  voice,  though  it  might  speak  in 
an  unknown  tongue.  He  answered  Flemming's 
salutation  in  a  rude  mountain  dialect,  and  in  reply 
to  his  questions  said  :  — 

"  T,  with  two  others,  have  charge  of  two  hun 
dred  head  of  cattle  on  these  mountains.  Through 
the  two  summer  months,  we  remain  here  night  and 
day  ;  for  which  we  receive  each  a  napoleon." 

Flemming  gave  him  half  his  summer  wages. 
He  was  glad  to  do  a  good  deed  in  secret,  and  yet 
so  near  heaven.  The  man  received  it  as  his  due, 
like  a  toll-keeper  ;  and  soon  after  departed,  leav 
ing  the  traveller  alone.  And  the  traveller  went 
his  way  down  the  mountain,  as  one  distraught. 
He  stopped  only  to  pluck  one  bright  blue  flower, 
which  bloomed  alone  in  the  vast  desert,  and  looked 
up  at  him,  as  if  to  say,  "  O,  take  me  with  you  ! 
leave  me  not  here  companionless  !  " 

Ere  long  he  reached  the  magnificent  glacier  of 
the  Rhone  ;  a  frozen  cataract,  more  than  two 


200  HYPERION, 

thousand  feet  in  height,  and  many  miles  broad  at 
its  base.  It  fills  the  whole  valley  between  two 
mountains,  running  back  to  their  summits.  At 
the  base  it  is  arched,  like  a  dome  ;  and  above, 
jagged  and  rough,  and  resembles  a  mass  of  gigan 
tic  crystals,  of  a  pale  emerald  tint,  mingled  with 
white.  A  snowy  crust  covers  its  surface ;  but  at 
every  rent  and  crevice  the  pale  green  ice  shines 
clear  in  the  sun.  Its  shape  is  that  of  a  glove, 
lying  with  the  palm  downwards,  and  the  fingers 
crooked  and  close  together.  It  is  a  gauntlet  of 
ice,  which,  centuries  ago,  Winter,  the  king  of 
these  mountains,  threw  down  in  defiance  to  the 
Sun  ;  and  year  by  year  the  Sun  strives  in  vain 
to  lift  it  from  the  ground  on  the  point  of  his  glit 
tering  spear.  A  feeling  of  wonder  and  delight 
came  over  the  soul  of  Flemming  when  he  beheld 
it,  and  he  shouted  and  cried  aloud  :  — 
"  How  wonderful  !  how  glorious  !  " 
After  lingering  a  few  hours  in  the  cold,  deso 
late  valley,  he  climbed  in  the  afternoon  the  steep 
Mayen-Wand,  on  the  Grimsel ;  passed  the  Lake 
of  the  Dead,  with  its  ink-black  waters  ;  and 
through  the  melting  snow,  and  over  slippery  step 
ping-stones  in  the  beds  of  numberless  shallow 
brooks,  descended  to  the  Grimsel  Hospital,  where 


A    ROMANCE  201 

he  passed  the  night,  and  thought  it  the  most  lone 
and  desolate  spot  that  man  ever  slept  in. 

On  the  morrow,  he  rose  with  the  day ;  and  the 
rising  sun  found  him  already  standing  on  the  rus 
tic  hridge  which  hangs  over  the  verge  of  the 
Falls  of  the  Aar  at  Handeck,  where  the  river 
pitches  down  a  precipice  into  a  narrow  and  fear 
ful  abyss  shut  in  by  perpendicular  cliffs.  At 
right  angles  with  it  comes  the  beautiful  Aerlen- 
bach  ;  and  half-way  down,  the  double  cascade 
mingles  into  one.  Thus  he  pursued  his  way  down 
the  Hasli  Thai  into  the  Bernese  Oberland,  — 
restless,  impatient,  he  knew  not  why,  —  stopping 
seldom,  and  never  long,  —  and  then  rushing  for 
ward  again,  like  the  rushing  river  whose  steps  he 
followed,  and  in  whose  ice-cold  waters  ever  and 
anon  he  bathed  his  wrists,  to  cool  the  fever  in 
his  blood  ;  for  the  noonday  sun  was  hot. 

His  heart  dilated  in  the  dilating  valley,  that 
grew  broader  and  greener  at  every  step.  The 
sight  of  human  faces  and  human  dwellings  soothed 
him ;  and  through  the  fields  of  summer  grain,  in 
the  broad  meadows  of  Imgrund,  he  walked  with 
a  heart  that  ached  no  more,  but  trembled  only,  as 
our  eyelids  when  we  have  done  weeping.  As  he 
climbed  the  opposite  hill,  which  hems  in  this  ro- 


202  HYPERION, 

mantic  valley,  and,  like  a  heavy  yoke,  chafes  the 
neck  of  the  Aar,  he  believed  the  ancient  tradition, 
which  says  that  once  the  valley  was  a  lake. 
From  the  summit  of  the  hill  he  looked  southward 
upon  a  beautiful  landscape  of  gardens,  and  fields 
of  grain,  and  woodlands,  and  meadows,  and  the 
ancient  castle  of  Resti,  looking  down  upon  Mey- 
ringen.  And  now  all  around  him  were  the  sing 
ing  of  birds,  and  grateful  shadows  of  the  leafy 
trees,  and  sheeted  waterfalls  dropping  from  the 
woodland  cliffs,  seen  only,  but  unheard, — the 
fluted  columns  breaking  into  mist,  and  fretted  with 
frequent  spires  and  ornaments  of  foam,  and  no» 
unlike  the  towers  of  a  Gothic  church  inverted. 
There,  in  one  white  sheet  of  foam,  the  Riechen- 
bach  pours  down  into  its  deep  beaker,  into  which 
the  sun  never  shines.  Face  to  face  it  beholds 
the  Alpbach  falling  from  the  opposite  hill,  "  like 
a  downward  smoke."  When  Flemming  saw  the 
innumerable  runnels,  sliding  down  the  mountain 
side,  and  leaping,  all  life  and  gladness,  he  would 
fain  have  clasped  them  in  his  arms  and  been  their 
playmate,  and  revelled  with  them  in  their  freedom 
and  delight.  Yet  he  was  weary  with  the  day's 
journey,  and  entered  the  village  of  Meyringen, 
embowered  in  cherry-trees,  which  were  then  laden 


A    ROMANCE.  203 

with  fruit,  more  like  a  wayworn  traveller  than  an 
enthusiastic  poet.  As  he  went  up  the  tavern- 
steps,  he  said  in  his  heart,  with  the  Italian  Areti 
no  :  "  He  who  has  not  been  at  a  tavern  knows 
not  what  a  paradise  it  is.  O  holy  tavern  !  O 
miraculous  tavern  !  —  holy,  because  no  carking 
cares  are  there,  nor  weariness,  nor  pain  ;  and 
miraculous,  because  of  the  spits,  which  of  them 
selves  turn  round  and  round  !  Of  a  truth,  all 
courtesy  and  good  manners  come  from  taverns,  so 
full  of  bows,  and  Signor,  si !  and  Signor,  no  !  '* 
But  even  in  the  tavern  he  could  not  rest  long. 
The  same  evening  at  sunset  he  was  floating  on 
the  lake  of  Brienz,  in  an  open  boat,  close  un 
der  the  cascade  of  the  Giessbach,  hearing  the 
peasants  sing  the  Ranz  des  Vaches.  He  slept 
that  night  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  lake,  in  a 
large  house,  which,  like  Saint  Peter's  at  Joppa, 
stood  by  the  water's  side.  The  next  day  he 
wasted  in  writing  letters,  musing  in  this  green 
nest,  and  paddling  about  the  lake  again  ;  and  in 
the  evening  went  across  the  beautiful  meadows 
to  Interlachen,  where  many  things  happened  to 
him,  and  detained  him  long. 


204  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  III. 

INTERLACHEN. 

INTERLACHEN  !  How  peacefully, .  by  the 
margin  of  the  swift-rushing  Aar,  thou  liest  on 
the  broad  lap  of  those  romantic  meadows,  all 
overshadowed  by  the  wide  arms  of  giant  trees  ! 
Only  the  round  towers  of  thine  ancient  cloister 
rise  above  their  summits  ;  the  round  towers  them 
selves,  but  a  child's  playthings  under  the  great 
church-towers  of  the  mountains.  Close  beside 
thee  are  lakes,  which  the  flowing  band  of  the 
river  ties  together.  Before  thee  opens  the  mag 
nificent  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  where  the 
cloud-hooded  Monk  and  pale  Virgin  stand  like 
Saint  Francis  and  his  Bride  of  Snow ;  and 
around  thee  are  fields,  and  orchards,  and  hamlets 
green,  from  which  the  church-bells  answer  each 
other  at  evening.  The  evening  sun  was  setting 
when  I  first  beheld  thee.  The  sun  of  life  will 


A    ROMANCE.  2Cb 

set  ere  I  forget  thee  !  Surely  it  was  a  scene 
like  this,  that  inspired  the  soul  of  the  Swiss  po 
et,  m  his  Song  of  the  Bell  ! 

"  Bell !  them  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell !  tliou  soundest  solemnly 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 
Fields  deserted  He ! 

"  Bell !  tliou  soundest  merrily 
Tellest  tliou  at  evening, 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh  ' 
Bell !  tliou  soundest  mournfully ; 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 
Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

"  Say  !  how  canst  thou  mourn ' 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Art  but  metal  dull ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

"  God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  !  " 

Paul  Flemming  alighted  at  one  of  the  princi 
pal  hotels.     The  landlord  came  out  to  meet  him. 


206  HYPERION, 

He  had  great  eyes  and  a  green  coat ;  and  re 
minded  Flemming  of  the  innkeeper  mentioned  in 
the  Golden  Ass,  who  had  been  changed  by  mag 
ic  into  a  frog,  and  croaked  to  his  customers  from 
the  lees  of  a  wine-cask.  His  house,  he  said, 
was  full,  and  so  was  every  house  in  Interlachen  ; 
but,  if  the  gentleman  would  walk  in,  he  would 
procure  a  chamber  for  him  in  the  neighbour 
hood. 

On  the  sofa  sat  a  gentleman,  reading  ;  a  stout 
gentleman  of  perhaps  forty-five,  round,  ruddy, 
and  with  a  head,  which,  being  a  little  bald  on  the 
top,  looked  not  unlike  a  crow's  nest  with  one 
egg  in  it.  A  good-humored  face  turned  from  the 
book  as  Flemming  entered  ;  and  a  good-hu 
mored  voice  exclaimed  :  — 

11  Ha  !  ha  !  Mr.  Flemming  !  Is  it  you,  or 
your  apparition  ?  I  told  you  we  should  meet 
again  !  though  you  were  for  taking  an  eternal 
farewell  of  your  fellow-traveller." 

Saying  these  words,  the  stout  gentleman  rose 
and  shook  F'emming  heartily  by  the  hand.  And 
Flemming  returned  the  shake  as  heartily,  recog 
nizing  in  this  ruddy  personage  a  former  travelling- 
companion,  Mr.  Berkley,  whom  he  had  left,  a 
week  or  two  previous,  toiling  up  the  Righi.  Mr. 


A    ROMANCE.  207 

Berkley  was  an  Englishman  of  fortune  ;  a  good- 
humored,  humane  old  bachelor  ;  remarkable  alike 
for  his  common  sense  and  his  eccentricity.  That 
is  to  say,  the  basis  of  his  character  was  good, 
sound  common  sense,  trodden  down  and  smooth 
ed  by  education  ;  but  this  level  groundwork  his 
strange  and  whimsical  fancy  used  as  a  dancing- 
floor,  whereon  to  exhibit  her  eccentric  tricks. 
His  ruling  passion  was  cold-bathing  ;  and  he 
usually  ate  his  breakfast  sitting  in  a  tub  of  cold 
water,  and  reading  a  newspaper.  He  kissed  ev 
ery  child  he  met ;  and  to  every  old  man  said,  in 
passing,  "  God  bless  you  !  "  with  such  an  ex 
pression  of  voice  and  countenance,  that  no  one 
could  doubt  his  sincerity.  He  reminded  one  of 
Roger  Bontemps,  or  the  Little  Man  in  Gray  ; 
though  with  a  difference. 

"  The  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you,  Mr.  Berkley,"  said  Flemming,  u  was  at 
Goldau,  just  as  you  were  going  up  the  Righi. 
I  hope  you  were  gratified  with  a  fine  sunrise  on 
the  mountain-top." 

"  No,  I  was  not ! "  replied  Mr.  Berkley. 
u  It  is  all  a  humbug  !  a  confounded  humbug  ! 
They  made  such  a  noise  about  their  sunrise,  that 
I  determined  I  would  not  see  it.  So  I  lay  snug 


208  HYPERION, 

in  bed  ;  and  only  peeped  through  the  window- 
curtain.  That  was  enough.  Just  above  the 
house,  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  stood  some  fifty 
half-dressed,  romantic  individuals,  shivering  in 
the  wet  grass ;  and,  a  short  distance  from  them, 
a  miserable  wretch,  blowing  a  long,  wooden  horn. 
'  That 's  your  sunrise  on  the  Righi,  is  it  ? '  said  I ; 
and  went  to  sleep  again.  The  best  thing  I  saw 
at  the  Culm  was  the  advertisement  on  the  bed 
room  doors,  saying,  that,  if  die  women  would 
wear  the  quilts  and  blankets  for  shawls,  when 
they  went  out  to  see  the  sunrise,  they  must  pay 
for  the  washing.  Take  my  word  for  it,  the  Ri 
ghi  is  a  great  humbug  !  " 

"  Where  have  you  been  since  ?  " 

"  At  Zurich  and  Schaffhausen.  If  you  go  to 
Zurich,  beware  how  you  stop  at  the  Raven. 
They  will  cheat  you.  They  cheated  me  ;  but  I 
had  my  revenge  ;  for,  when  we  reached  Schaff 
hausen,  I  wrote  in  the  Traveller's  Book, — 

Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Zurich  ! 

'T  is  a  bird  of  omen  ill ; 
With  a  noisy  and  an  unclean  nest, 

And  a  very,  very  long  bill. 

If  you  go  to  the  Golden  Falken,  you  will  find  it 
there.  I  am  the  author  of  those  lines  !  " 


A    ROMANCE. 

"  Bitter  as  Juvenal  ! "  exclaimed  Flemming. 

"  Not  in  the  least  bitter,"  said  Mr.  Berkley. 
"  It  is  all  true.  Go  to  the  Raven  and  see.  But 
this  Interlachen  !  this  Interlachen  !  It  is  the 
loveliest  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth,"  he  con 
tinued,  stretching  out  both  arms,  as  if  to  embrace 
the  object  of  his  affection.  "There,  —  only 
look  out  there  !  " 

Here  he  pointed  to  the  window.  Flemming 
looked,  and  beheld  a  scene  of  transcendent  beau 
ty.  The  plain  was  covered  already  by  the 
brown  shade  of  the  summer  twilight.  From  the 
cottage  roofs  in  Unterseen  rose  here  and  there  a 
thin  column  of  smoke  over  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
and  mingled  with  the  evening  shadows.  The 
valley  of  Lauterbrunnen  was  filled  with  a  blue 
haze.  Far  above,  in  the  clear,  cloudless  heaven, 
the  white  forehead  of  the  Jungfrau  blushed  at  the 
last  kiss  of  the  departing  sun.  It  was  a  glorious 
Transfiguration  of  Nature  !  And  when  the  vil 
lage  bells  began  to  ring,  and  a  single  voice  at  a 
great  distance  was  heard  yodling  forth  a  ballad,  it 
rather  broke  than  increased  the  enchantment  of  a 
scene,  where  silence  was  more  musical  than 
sound. 

For  a  long  time  they  gazed  at  the  gloaming 
14 


210  HYPERION, 

landscape,  and  spake  not.  At  length  people 
came  in,  and  laid  aside  their  shawls  and  hats,  and 
exchanged  a  word  or  two  with  Berkley.  To 
Flemming  they  were  all  unknown.  The  con 
versation  turned  upon  the  various  excursions  of 
the  day.  Some  had  been  at  the  Staubhach, 
others  at  the  Grindelwald,  others  at  the  Lake  of 
Thun  ;  and  nobody  before  had  ever  experienced 
half  the  rapture  which  they  had  experienced  that 
day.  And  thus  they  sat  in  the  twilight,  as  peo 
ple  love  to  do,  at  the  close  of  a  summer  day. 
As  yet  the  lamps  had  not  been  lighted,  and  one 
could  not  distinguish  faces  ;  but  voices  only,  and 
forms,  like  shadows. 

Presently  a  female  figure,  clothed  in  black,  en 
tered  the  room  and  sat  down  by  the  window. 
She  rather  listened  to  the  conversation,  than 
joined  in  it ;  but  the  few  words  she  said  were 
spoken  in  a  voice  so  musical  and  full  of  soul,  that 
it  moved  the  soul  of  Flemming,  like  a  whisper 
from  heaven. 

O,  how  wonderful  is  the  human  voice  !  It  is 
indeed  the  organ  of  the  "soul  !  The  intellect  of 
man  sits  enthroned  visibly  upon  his  forehead  and 
in  his  eye  ;  and  the  heart  of  man  is  written  upon 
his  countenance.  But  the  soul  reveals  itself  in 


A.    ROMANCE.  211 

the  voice  only  ;  as  God  revealed  himself  to  the 
prophet  of  old  in  the  still,  small  voice,  and  in  a 
voice  from  the  burning  bush.  The  soul  of  man 
is  audible,  not  visible.  A  sound  alone  betrays 
the  flowing  of  the  eternal  fountain,  invisible  to 
man  ! 

Flemming  would  fain  have  sat  and  listened  foi 
hours  to  the  sound  of  that  unknown  voice.  He 
felt  sure,  in  his  secret  heart,  that  the  being  from 
whom  it  came  was  beautiful.  His  imagination 
filled  up  the  faint  outline  which  the  eye  beheld 
in  the  fading  twilight,  and  the  figure  stood  already 
in  his  mind  like  Raphael's  beautiful  Madonna  in 
the  Dresden  gallery.  He  was  never  more  mis 
taken  in  his  life.  The  voice  belonged  to  a  beau 
tiful  being,  it  is  true  ;  but  her  beauty  was  differ 
ent  from  that  of  any  Madonna  which  Raphael 
ever  painted  ;  as  he  would  have  seen,  had  he 
waited  till  the  lamps  were  lighted.  But  in  the 
midst  of  his  reverie  and  saint-painting,  the  land 
lord  came  in,  and  told  him  he  had  found  a  cham 
ber,  which  he  begged  him  to  go  and  look  at. 

Flemming  took  his  leave  and  departed.  Berk 
ley  went  with  him,  to  see,  he  said,  what  kind  of 
a  nest  his  young  friend  was  to  sleep  in. 

"  The    chamber  is   not  what  I   could  wish," 


212  HYPERION, 

said  the  landlord,  as  he  led  them  across  the  street 
"  It  is  in  the  old  cloister.     But  to-morrow  or 
next  day,  you  can,  no  doubt,  have  a  room  at  the 
house." 

The  name  of  the  cloister  struck  Flemming's 
imagination  pleasantly.  He  was  owl  enough  to 
like  ruins  and  old  chambers,  where  nuns  or  friars 
had  slept.  And  he  said  to  Berkley  :  — 

"  So,  you  perceive,  my  nest  is  to  be  in  a 
cloister.  It  already  makes  me  think  of  a  bird's 
nest  I  once  saw  on  an  old  tower  of  Heidelberg 
Castle,  built  in  the  jaws  of  a  lion,  which  formerly 
served  as  a  spout.  But  pray  tell  me,  who  was 
that  young  lady,  with  the  soft  voice  ?  " 

"  What  young  lady  with  the  soft  voice  ?" 

"  The  young  lady  in  black,  who  sat  by  the 
window." 

"  O,  she  is  the  daughter  of  an  English  officer, 
who  died  not  long  ago  at  Naples.  She  is  passing 
the  summer  here  with  her  mother." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  Ashburton." 

"  Is  she  beautiful  ?  " 

u  Not  beautiful  ;  but  very  intellectual.  A 
woman  of  genius,  I  should  say." 

And  now  they  had  reached  the  walls  of  the 


A    ROMANCE.  213 

cloister,  and  passed  under  an  arched  gateway, 
and  close  beneath  the  round  towers,  which  Flem- 
ming  had  already  seen,  rising  with  their  cone- 
shaped  roofs  above  the  trees,  like  tall  tapers, 
with  extinguishers  upon  them. 

l<  It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  looks,"  said  the  land 
lord,  knocking  at  a  small  door,  in  the  main  build 
ing.  "  The  bailiff  lives  in  one  part  of  it." 

A  servant  girl,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  open 
ed  the  door,  and  conducted  Flemming  and  Berk 
ley  to  the  chamber  which  had  been  engaged.  It 
was  a  large  room  on  the  lower  floor,  wainscoted 
with  pine,  and  unpainted.  Three  lofty  and  nar 
row  windows,  with  leaden  lattices  and  small 
panes,  looked  southward  towards  the  valley  of 
Lauterbrunnen  and  the  mountains.  In  one  cor 
ner  was  a  large  square  bed,  with  a  tester  and 
checked  curtains.  In  another,  a  huge  stove  of 
painted  tiles,  reaching  almost  to  the  ceiling.  An 
old  sofa,  a  few  high-backed,  antique  chairs,  and  a 
table,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room. 

Thus  Flemming  took  possession  of  his  monk 
ish  cell  and  dormitory.  He  ordered  tea,  and  be 
gan  to  feel  at  home.  Berkley  passed  the  even 
ing  with  him.  On  going  away,  he  said  :  — 

"  Good  night  !     I  leave  you  to  the  care  of  the 


214  HYPERION, 

Virgin  and  all  the  Saints.  If  the  ghost  of  any 
old  monk  comes  back  after  his  prayer-book,  my 
compliments  to  him.  If  I  were  a  younger  man, 
you  certainly  should  see  a  ghost.  Good  night !  " 
When  he  had  departed,  Flemming  opened  the 
lattice  of  one  of  the  windows.  The  moon  had 
risen,  and  silvered  the  dark  outline  of  the  near 
est  hills  ;  while,  afar  off,  the  snowy  summits  of 
the  Jungfrau  and  the  Silver-Horn  shone  like  a 
white  cloud  in  the  sky.  Close  beneath  the  win 
dows  was  a  flower-garden  ;  and  the  breath  of  the 
summer  night  came  to  him  with  dewy  fragrance. 
There  was  a  grateful  seclusion  about  the  place. 
He  blessed  the  happy  accident  which  gave  him 
such  a  lodging,  and  fell  asleep  that  night  thinking 
of  the  nuns  who  once  had  slept  in  the  same  quiet 
cells  ;  but  neither  wimpled  nun  nor  cowled  monk 
appeared  to  him  in  his  dreams  ;  —  not  even  the 
face  of  Mary  Ashburton  ;  nor  did  he  hear  her 
voice. 


A    ROMANCE.  215 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    EVENING    AND    THE    MORNING    STAR. 

OLD  Froissart  tells  us,  in  his  Chronicles,  that, 
when  King  Edward  beheld  the  Countess  of  Sal 
isbury  at  her  castle-gate,  he  thought  he  had  nev 
er  seen  before  so  noble  nor  so  fair  a  lady  ;  he 
was  stricken  thereupon  to  the  heart  with  a  spar 
kle  of  fine  love,  that  endured  long  after  ;  he 
thought  no  lady  in  the  world  so  worthy  to  be  be 
loved  as  she.  And  so  likewise  thought  Paul 
Flemming,  when  he  beheld  the  English  lady  in 
the  fair  light  of  a  summer  morning.  I  will  not 
disguise  the  truth.  She  is  my  heroine  ;  and  I 
mean  to  describe  her  with  great  truth  and  beauty, 
so  that  all  shall  be  in  love  with  her,  and  I  most 
of  all. 

Mary  Ashburton  was  in  her  twentieth  summer. 
Like  the  fair  maiden  Amoret,  she  was  sitting  in 
the  lap  of  womanhood.  They  did  her  wrong, 
who  said  she  was  not  beautiful ;  and  yet 


21fi  HYPERION, 

"  She  was  not  fair, 

Nor  beautiful ;  —  those  words  express  her  not. 
But,  O,  her  looks  had  something  excellent, 
That  wants  a  name !  " 

Her  face  had  a  wonderful  fascination  in  it.  It 
was  such  a  calm,  quiet  face,  with  the  light  of  the 
rising  soul  shining  so  peacefully  through  it.  At 
times  it  wore  an  expression  of  seriousness,  —  of 
sorrow  even  ;  and  then  seemed  to  make  the  very 
air  bright  with  what  the  Italian  poets  so  beautiful 
ly  call  the  lampeggiar  deW  angelico  n'so,  —  the 
lightning  of  the  angelic  smile. 

And,  O,  those  eyes,  —  those  deep  unutterable 

eyes,  with  "  down-falling  eyelids,  full  of  dreams 

and   slumber,"  and   within   them   a  cold,  living 

light,  as  in  mountain  lakes  at  evening,  or  in  the 

iver  of  Paradise,  for  ever  gliding, 

"  With  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon." 

I  dislike  an  eye  that  twinkles  like  a  star. 
Those  only  are  beautiful,  which,  like  the  planets, 
have  a  steady,  lambent  light,  —  are  luminous, 
but  not  sparkling.  Such  eyes  the  Greek  poets 
give  to  the  Immortals. 

The  lady's  figure  was  striking.     Every  step, 


A    ROMANCE.  217 

every  attitude  was  graceful,  and  yet  lofty,  as  if 
inspired  by  the  soul  within.  Angels  in  the  old 
poetic  philosophy  have  such  forms  ;  it  was  the 
soul  itself  imprinted  on  the  air.  And  what  a  soul 
was  hers  !  A  temple  dedicated  to  Heaven,  and, 
like  the  Pantheon  at  Rome,  lighted  only  from 
above.  And  earthly  passions  in  the  form  of  gods 
were  no  longer  there,  but  the  sweet  and  thought 
ful  faces  of  Christ,  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  and 
the  Saints.  Thus  there  was  not  one  discordant 
thing  in  her  ,  bin  a  perfect  harmony  of  figure, 
and  face,  and  soul,  -  -  in  a  word,  of  the  whole  be 
ing.  And  he  who  had  a  soul  to  comprehend 
hers  must  of  necessity  love  her,  and,  having 
once  loved  her,  could  love  no  other  woman  for 
evermore. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Flemming  felt  his  heart 
drawn  towards  her,  as,  in  her  morning  walk,  she 
passed  him,  sitting  alone  under  the  great  walnut- 
trees  near  the  cloister,  and  thinking  of  heaven, 
but  not  of  her.  She,  too,  was  alone.  Her 
cheek  was  no  longer  pale  ;  but  glowing  and 
bright,  with  the  inspiration  of  the  summer  air. 
Flemming  gazed  after  her,  till  she  disappeared, 
even  as  a  visi  in  of  his  dreams,  he  knew  not 
whither.  He  w  as  not  yet  in  love,  but  very  near 


218  HYPERION, 

it  ;  for  he  thanked  God  that  he  had  made  such 
beautiful  beings  to  walk  the  earth. 

Last  night  he  had  heard  a  voice  to  which  his 
soul  responded  ;  and  he  might  have  gone  on  his 
way,  and  taken  no  farther  heed.  But  he  would 
have  heard  that  voice  afterwards,  whenever  at 
evening  he  thought  of  this  evening  at  Interlachen. 
To-day  he  had  seen  more  clearly  the  vision,  and 
his  restless  soul  grew  calm.  The  place  seemed 
pleasant  to  him  ;  and  he  could  not  go.  He  did 
not  ask  himself  whence  came  this  calm.  He  felt 
it,  and  was  happy  in  the  feeling  ;  and  blessed 
the  landscape  and  the  summer  morning,  as  if  they 
possessed  the  wonder-working  power. 

"  A  pleasant  morning-dream  to  you,"  said  a 
friendly  voice  ;  and  at  the  same  moment  some 
one  laid  his  hand  upon  Flemming's  shoulder,  (t 
was  Berkley.  He  had  approached  unseen  nnd 
unheard. 

"  I  see  by  the  smile  on  your  countenance,'1  he 
continued,  "  that  it  is  no  day-incubus." 

"  You  are   right,"    replied    Flemming.     "  I 
was  a  pleasant  dream,  which  you  have  put   ^o 
flight." 

**  And  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  also 
put  to  flight  the  gloomy  thoughts  which  used  to 


A    ROMANCE.  219 

haunt  you.  I  like  to  see  people  cheerful  and 
happy.  Why  give  way  to  sadness  in  this  beau 
tiful  world  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  this  beautiful  world  !  "  said  Flemming, 
with  a  srnile.  "  Indeed,  I  know  not  what  to 
think  of  it.  Sometimes  it  is  all  gladness  anc 
sunshine,  and  heaven  itself  lies  not  far  off.  And 
then  it  changes  suddenly,  and  is  dark  and  sor 
rowful,  and  clouds  shut  out  the  sky.  In  the  lives 
of  the  saddest  of  us,  there  are  bright  days  like 
this,  when  we  feel  as  if  we  could  take  the  great 
world  in  our  arms.  Then  come  the  gloomy 
hours,  when  the  fire  will  neither  burn  on  our 
hearths  nor  in  our  hearts  ;  and  all  without  and 
within  is  dismal,  cold,  and  dark.  Believe  me, 
every  heart  has  its  secret  sorrows  which  the 
world  knows  not,  and  oftentimes  we  call  a  man 
cold,  when  he  is  only  sad." 

"  And  who  says  we  do  not  ?  "  interrupted 
Berkley.  "  Come,  come  !  Let  us  go  to  break 
fast.  The  morning  air  has  given  me  a  rude  ap 
petite.  I  long  to  say  grace  over  a  fresh  egg, 
and  eat  salt  with  my  worst  enemies  ;  namely,  the 
Cockneys  at  the  hotel.  After  breakfast  you 
must  give  yourself  up  wholly  to  me.  I  shall 
take  you  to  the  Grindelwald  !  " 


220  HYPERION, 

"  To-day,  then,  you  do  not  breakfast  like  Di 
ogenes,  but  consent  to  leave  your  tub." 

"  Yes,  for  the  pleasure  of  your  company.    1 
shall  also  blow  out  the  light  in  my  lantern,  bav 
ing  found  you." 

"  Thank  you." 

The  breakfast  passed  without  any  unusual  oc 
currence.  Flemming  watched  the  entrance  of 
every  guest ;  but  she  came  not,  —  the  guest  he 
most  desired  to  see. 

"  And  now  for  the  Grindelwald  !  "  said  Berk 
ley. 

"  Why  such  haste  ?  We  have  the  whole  day 
before  us.  There  is  time  enough." 

"  Not  a  moment  to  lose,  I  assure  you.  The 
carriage  is  at  the  door." 

They  drove  up  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen, 
and  turned  eastward  among  the  mountains  of  the 
Grindelwald.  There  they  passed  the  day  ;  half- 
frozen  by  the  icy  breath  of  the  Great  Glacier, 
upon  whose  surface  stand  pyramids  and  blocks  of 
ice,  like  the  tombstones  of  a  cemetery.  It  was 
a  weary  day  to  Flemming.  He  wished  himself 
at  Interlachen  ;  and  was  glad,  when,  towards 
evening,  he  saw  once  more  the  cone-roofed  tow 
ers  of  the  cloister  rising  above  the  walnut-trees. 


A    ROMANCE.  221 

That  evening  is  written  in  red  letters  in  his 
history.  It  gave  him  another  revelation  of  the 
beauty  and  excellence  of  woman's  character  and 
intellect ;  not  wholly  new  to  him,  yet  now  re 
newed  and  fortified.  It  was  from  the  lips  of  Ma 
ry  Ashburton  that  the  revelation  came.  Her 
form  arose,  like  a  tremulous  evening-star,  in  the 
firmament  of  his  soul.  He  conversed  with  her, 
and  with  her  alone  ;  and  knew  not  when  to  go. 
Ah1  others  were  to  him  as  if  they  were  not  there. 
He  saw  their  forms,  but  saw  them  as  the  forms 
of  inanimate  things.  At  length  her  mother  came  , 
and  Flemming  beheld  in  her  but  another  Mary 
Ashburton,  with  beauty  more  mature;  —  the 
same  forehead  and  eyes,  the  same  majestic  fig 
ure  ;  and,  as  yet,  no  trace  of  age.  He  gazed 
upon  her  with  a  feeling  of  delight,  not  unmingled 
with  holy  awe.  She  was  to  him  the  rich  and 
glowing  Evening,  from  whose  bosom  the  tremu 
lous  star  was  born. 

Berkley  took  no  active  part  in  the  conversa 
tion,  but  did  what  was  much  more  to  the  pur 
pose, — that  is  to  say,  arranged  a  drive  for  the 
next  day  with  the  Ashburtons,  and  of  course  in 
vited  Flemming,  who  went  home  that  night  with  a 
halo  round  his  head,  and  wondering  much  at  a 


222  HYPERION, 

dandy,  who  stood  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and 
said  to  his  companion,  as  Flemrning  passed  :  — 

''  What  do  you  call  this  place  ?     I  have  been 
here  two  hours  already,  and  find  it  devilish  dull !  ** 


A    ROMANCE.  223 


CHAPTER  V. 

A    RAINY   DAY. 

/ 

WHEN  Flemmlng  awoke  the  next  morning,  he 
jaw  the  sky  dark  and  lowering.  From  the  moun 
tain-tops  hung  a  curtain  of  mist,  whose  heavy 
folds  waved  to  and  fro  in  the  valley  below. 
Over  all  the  landscape  the  soft  summer  rain  was 
falling.  No  admiring  eyes  would  look  up  that 
day  at  the  Staubbach. 

A  rainy  day  in  Switzerland  puts  a  sudden  stop 
to  many  diversions.  The  coachman  may  drive 
to  the  inn,  and  then  back  to  the  stable  ;  but  no 
farther.  The  sunburnt  guide  may  sit  at  the  ale 
house  door,  and  welcome  ;  and  the  boaunart  whis 
tle  and  curse  the  clouds,  at  his  own  sweet  will  ; — 
but  no  foot  stirs  abroad  for  all  that  ;  no  traveller 
moves,  if  he  has  time  to  stay.  The  rainy  day 
gives  him  time  for  reflection.  He  has  leisure 
now  to  take  cognizance  of  his  impressions,  and 


224  HYPERION, 

make  up  his  account  with  the  mountains.  He 
remembers,  too,  that  he  has  friends  at  home  ; 
and  writes  up  the  journal,  neglected  for  a  week 
or  more,  and  letters  neglected  longer  ;  or  finish 
es  the  rough  pencil-sketch,  begun  yesterday  in 
the  open  air.  On  the  whole,  he  is  not  sorry  it 
rains,  —  though  disappointed. 

Flemming  was  both  sorry  and  disappointed  ; 
but  he  did  not  on  that  account  fail  to  go  over  to 
the  Ashburtons  at  the  appointed  hour.  He  found 
them  sitting  in  the  parlour.  The  mother  was 
reading,  and  the  daughter  retouching  a  sketch 
of  the  Lake  of  Thun.  After  the  usual  saluta 
tions,  Flemming  seated  himself  near  the  daugh 
ter,  and  said  :  — 

"  We  shall  have  no  Staubbach  to-day,  I  pre 
sume  ;  only  this  Giessbach  from  the  clouds." 

11  Nothing  more,  I  suppose.  So  we  must  be 
content  to  stay  in-doors,  and  listen  to  the  sound 
of  the  eaves-dropping  rain.  It  gives  me  time  to 
finish  some  of  these  rough  sketches." 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  pastime,"  said  Flemming  ; 
"  and  I  perceive  you  are  very  skilful.  I  am  de 
lighted  to  see  that  you  can  draw  a  straight  line. 
I  never  before  saw  a  lady's  sketch-book  in  which 
all  the  towers  did  not  resemble  the  Leaning  Tow- 


A    ROMANCE.  225 

er  of  Pisa.     I  always  tremble  for  the  little  men 
under  them." 

"  How  absurd  !  "  exclaimed  Mary  Ashburton, 
with  a  smile  that  passed  through  the  misty  air  of 
Flemming's  thoughts  like  a  sunbeam.  "  For  one, 
T  succeed  much  better  in  straight  lines  than  in  any 
others.  Here  I  have  been  trying  a  half-hour  to 
make  this  water-wheel  round  ;  and  round  it  nev 
er  will  be." 

"  Then  let  it  remain  as  it  is.     It  looks  uncom 
monly  picturesque,  and  may  pass  for  a  new  in 
vention." 

The  lady  continued  to  sketch,  and  Flemming 
to  gaze  at  her  beautiful  face  ;  often  repeating  to 
himself  those  lines  in  Marlow's  Faust  :  — 

"  O,  thou  art  fairer  tkan  the  evening  air, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars !  " 

He  certainly  would  have  betrayed  himself  to 
the  maternal  eye  of  Mrs.  Ashburton,  had  she  not 
been  wholly  absorbed  in  the  follies  of  a  fashion 
able  novel.  Ere  long,  the  fair  sketcher  had  paused 
for  a  moment;  and  Flemming  had  taken  her  sketch 
book  in  his  hands  and  was  looking  it  through  from 
the  beginning  with  ever-increasing  delight,  half  of 
which  he  dared  not  express,  though  he  favored  her 
with  some  comments  and  bursts  of  admiration. 
15 


226  HYPERION, 

"  This  is  truly  a  very  beautiful  sketch  of 
Murten  and  the  battle-field  !  How  quietly  the 
landscape  sleeps  there  by  the  lake,  after  the  bat 
tle  !  Did  you  ever  read  the  ballad  of  Veit  We 
ber,  the  shoemaker,  on  this  subject  ?  He  says, 
the  routed  Burgundians  jumped  into  the  lake, 
and  the  Swiss  Leaguers  shot  them  down  like  wild 
ducks  among  the  reeds.  He  fought  in  the  battle, 
ana  wrote  the  ballad  afterwards  ;  — 

*  He  had  himself  laid  hand  on  sword, 

He  who  this  rhyme  did  write ; 
Till  evening  mowed  he  with  the  sword, 
And  sang  the  song  at  night.'  " 

"  You  must  give  me  the  whole  ballad,"  said 
Miss  Ashburton  ;  "it  will  serve  to  illustrate  the 
sketch."  • 

"  And  the  sketch  to  illustrate  the  ballad. 
A.nd  now  we  suddenly  slide  down  the  Alps  into 
Italy,  and  are  even  in  Rome,  if  I  mistake  not. 
This  is  surely  a  head  of  Homer  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  little  enthusi 
asm.  "  Do  you  not  remember  the  marble  bust 
at  Rome  ?  When  I  first  beheld  that  bust,  it  ab 
solutely  inspired  me  with  awe.  It  is  not  the  face 
of  a  man,  but  of  a  god  !  " 

"  And  you  have  done  it  no  injustice  in  youi 


A    ROMANCE.  227 

copy,"  said  Flemming,  catching  a  new  enthusi 
asm  from  hers.  "With  what  a  classic  grace  the 
fillet,  passing  round  the  majestic  forehead,  con 
fines  his  flowing  locks,  which  mingle  with  his 
beard  !  The  countenance,  too,  is  calm,  majes 
tic,  godlike  !  Even  the  fixed  and  sightless  eye 
balls  do  not  mar  the  image  of  the  seer !  Such 
were  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  blind  old  man  of 
Chios.  They  seem  to  look  with  mournful  solem 
nity  into  the  mysterious  future  ;  and  the  marble 
lips  to  repeat  that  prophetic  passage  in  the  Hymn 
to  Apollo  :- — 'Let  me  also  hope  to  be  remember 
ed  in  ages  to  come.  And  when  any  one,  born  of 
the  tribes  of  men,  comes  hither,  a  weary  travel 
ler,  and  inquires,  who  is  the  sweetest  of  the 
singing-men  that  resort  to  your  feasts,  and  whom 
you  most  delight  to  hear,  do  you  make  answer 
for  me  :  It  is  the  Blind  Man  who  dwells  in 
Chios  ;  his  songs  excel  all  that  can  ever  be 
sung !  '  But  do  you  really  believe  that  this  is 
a  portrait  of  Homer  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not  !  It  is  only  an  artist's  dream. 
It  was  thus  that  Homer  appeared  to  him  in  his 
visions  of  the  antique  world.  Every  one,  you 
know,  forms  an  image  in  his  fancy  of  persons 
and  things  he  has  never  seen  ;  and  the  artist  re 
produces  them  in  marble  or  on  canvass." 


228  HYPERION, 

"  And  what  is  the  image  in  your  fancy  ?  Is  n 
like  this  ?  " 

"  No  ;  not  entirely.  I  have  drawn  my  impres 
sions  from  another  source.  Whenever  I  think  of 
Homer,  which  is  not  often,  he  walks  before  me, 
solemn  and  serene,  as  in  the  vision  of  the  great 
Italian  ;  in  countenance  neither  •  sorrowful  nor 
glad,  followed  by  other  bards,  and  holding  in  his 
right  hand  a  sword  !  " 

"  That  is  a  finer  conception  than  this," 
said  Flemming.  "  And  I  perceive  from  your 
words,  as  well  as  from  this  book,  that  you  have  a 
true  feeling  for  Art,  and  understand  what  it  is. 
You  have  had  bright  glimpses  into  the  enchanted 
land." 

"  I  trust,"  replied  the  lady,  modestly,  "  that  I 
am  not  wholly  without  this  feeling.  Certainly  I 
have  as  strong  and  passionate  a  love  of  Art  as  of 
Nature." 

"  But  does  it  not  often  offend  you  to  hear  peo 
ple  speaking  of  Art  and  Nature  as  opposite  and 
discordant  things  ?  Surely  nothing  can  be  more 
false.  Nature  is  a  revelation  of  God  ;  Art  a  rev 
elation  of  man.  Indeed,  Art  signifies  no  more 
than  this.  Art  is  Power.  That  is  the  original 
meaning  of  the  word.  It  is  the  creative  power 


A    ROMANCE.  229 

by  which  the  soul  of  man  makes  itself  known, 
through  some  external  manifestation  or  outward 
sign.  As  we  can  always  hear  the  voice  of  God, 
walking  in  the  garden,  in  the  cool  of  the  day,  or 
under  the  star-light,  where,  to  quote  one  of  this 
poet's  verses,  '  high  prospects  and  the  brows  of 
all  steep  hills  and  pinnacles  thrust  up  themselves 
for  shows, '  —  so  under  the  twilight  and  the  star 
light  of  past  ages,  do  we  hear  the  voice  of  man, 
walking  amid  the  works  of  his  hands,  and  city 
walls  and  towers,  and  the  spires  of  churches, 
thrust  up  themselves  for  shows." 

The  lady  smiled  at  his  warmth  ;  and  he  con 
tinued  :  — 

"  This,  however,  is  but  a  similitude  ;  and  Art 
and  Nature  are  more  nearly  allied  than  by  simili 
tudes  only.  Art  is  the  revelation  of  man  ;  and 
not  merely  that,  but  likewise  the  revelation  of  Na 
ture,  speaking  through  man.  Art  preexists  in 
Nature,  and  Nature  is  reproduced  in  Art.  As 
vapors  from  the  ocean,  floating  landward  and  dis 
solved  in  rain,  are  carried  back  in  rivers  to  the 
ocean,  so  thoughts  and  the  semblances  of  things 
that  fall  upon  the  soul  of  man  in  showers  flow  out 
again  in  living  streams  of  Art,  and  lose  them 
selves  in  the  great  ocean,  which  is  Nature.  Art 


230  HYPERION, 

and  Nature  are  not,  then,  discordant,  but  ever 
harmoniously  working  in  each  other." 

Enthusiasm  begets  enthusiasm.  Flemming 
spake  with  such  evident  interest  m  the  subject, 
that  Miss  Ashburton  did  not  fail  to  manifest  some 
interest  in  what  he  said  ;  and  encouraged  by  this, 
he  proceeded :  — 

"  Thus  in  this  wondrous  world  wherein  we 
live,  which  is  the  World  of  Nature,  man  has 
made  unto  himself  another  world  hardly  less  won 
drous,  which  is  the  World  of  Art.  And  it  lies 
\nfolded  and  compassed  about  by  the  other, 

'And  the  clear  region  where  't  was  born 
Round  in  itself  incloses.' 

Taking  this  view  of  Art,  I  think  we  understand 
more  easily  the  skill  of  the  artist,  and  the  differ 
ence  between  him  and  the  mere  amateur.  What 
we  call  miracles  and  wonders  of  Art  are  not  so  to 
him  who  created  them  ;  for  they  were  created 
by  the  natural  movements  of  his  own  great  soul. 
Statues,  paintings,  chifrches,  poems,  are  but 
shadows  of  himself ;  —  shadows  in  marble,  col 
ors,  stone,  words.  He  feels  and  recognizes  their 
beauty  ;  but  he  thought  these  thoughts  and  pro 
duced  these  things  as  easily  as  inferior  minds  do 
thoughts  and  things  inferior  ;  perhaps  more  easi- 


A    ROMANCE.  231 

ly.  Vague  images  and  shapes  of  beauty  floating 
through  the  soul,  the  semblances  of  things  as  yet 
indefinite  or  ill-defined,  and  perfect  only  when 
put  in  Art,  —  this  Possible  Intellect,  as  the  Scho 
lastic  Philosophers  have  termed  it,  —  the  artist 
shares  in  common  with  us  all.  The  lovers  of 
Art  are  many.  But  the  Active  Intellect,  the  cre 
ative  power,  —  the  power  to  put  these  shapes 
and  images  in  Art,  to  imbody  the  indefinite,  and 
render  perfect,  —  is  his  alone.  He  shares  the  gift 
with  few.  He  knows  not  even  whence  nor  how 
this  is.  He  knows  only  that  it  is  ;  that  God  has 
given  him  the  power,  which  has  been  denied  to 
others." . 

"  I  should  have  known  you  were  just  from 
Germany,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  smile,  "  even  if 
you  had  not  told  me  so.  You  are  an  enthusiast 
for  the  Germans.  For  my  part,  I  cannot  endure 
their  harsh  language." 

"  You  would  like  it  better,  if  you  knew  it  bet 
ter,"  answered  Flemming.  "It  is  not  harsh  to 
me ;  but  homelike,  hearty,  and  full  of  feeling,  — 
like  the  sound  of  happy  voices  at  a  fireside,  of  a 
winter's  night,  when  the  wind  blows,  and  the  fire 
crackles,  and  hisses,  and  snaps.  I  do  indeed 
love  the  Germans  ;  the  men  are  so  hale  and  hear 
ty,  and  the  Frauleins  so  tender  and  true  !  " 


232  HYPERION, 

"  I  always  think  of  men  with  pipes  and  beer, 
and  women  with  knitting-work." 

"  O,  those  are  English  prejudices  !  "  exclaimed 
Flemming.  "  Nothing  can  be  more " 

"  And  their  very  literature  presents  itself  to 
my  imagination  under  the  same  forms." 

"  I  see  you  have  read  only  English  criticisms  , 
and  have  an  idea,  that  all  German  books  smell, 
as  one  of  your  English  critics  says,  '  of  grocer 
ies,  of  brown  papers  filled  with  greasy  cakes  and 
slices  of  bacon,  and  of  fryings  in  frouzy  back- 
parlours'  ;  and  this  shuts  you  out  from  a  glorious 
world  of  poetry,  romance,  and  dreams  !  " 

Mary  Ashburton  smiled,  and  Flemming  con 
tinued  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  sketch-book, 
with  an  occasional  criticism  and  witticism.  At 
length  he  came  to  a  leaf  which  was  written  in 
pencil.  People  of  a  lively  imagination  are  gen 
erally  curious,  and  always  so  when  a  little  in 
love. 

"  Here  is  a  pencil-sketch,"  said  he,  with  an 
entreating  look,  "  which  I  would  fain  examine 
with  the  rest." 

"  You  may  do  so,  if  you  wish  ;  but  you  will 
find  it  the  poorest  sketch  in  the  book.  I  was 
trying  one  day  to  draw  the  picture  of  an  artist's 


A    ROMANCE.  233 

life  in  Rome,  as  it  presented  itself  to  my  imagi 
nation  ;  and  this  is  the  result.  Perhaps  it  may 
awaken  some  pleasant  recollection  in  your  mind." 

Flemming  waited  no  longer  ;  but  read  with  the 
eyes  of  a  lover,  not  of  a  critic,  the  following  de 
scription,  which  inspired  him  with  a  new  enthusi 
asm  for  Art,  and  for  Mary  Ashburton. 

"  I  often  reflect  with  delight  upon  the  young 
artist's  life  in  Rome.  A  stranger  from  the  cold 
and  gloomy  North,  he  has  crossed  the  Alps,  and 
with  the  devotion  of  a  pilgrim  journeyed  to  the 
Eternal  City.  He  dwells,  perhaps,  upon  the  Pin- 
cian  Hill  ;  and  hardly  a  house  there,  which  is 
not  inhabited  by  artists  from  foreign  lands.  The 
very  room  he  lives  in  has  been  their  abode 
time  out  of  mind.  Their  names  are  written  all 
over  the  walls  ;  perhaps  some  further  record  of 
them  is  left  in  a  rough  sketch  upon  the  window- 
shutter,  with  an  inscription  and  a  date.  These 
things  consecrate  the  place,  in  his  imagination. 
Even  these  names,  though  unknown  to  him,  are 
not  without  associations  in  his  mind. 

"  In  that  warm  latitude  he  rises  with  the  day. 
The  night-vapors  are  already  rolling  away  over 
the  Campagna  seaward.  As  he  looks  from  his 
window,  above  and  beyond  their  white  folds  he 


234  HYPERION, 

recognizes  the  tremulous  blue  sea  at  Ostia.  Over 
Soracte  rises  the  sun,  —  over  his  own  beloved 
mountain  ;  though  no  longer  worshipped  there,  as 
of  old.  Before  him,  the  antique  house  of  Claude 
Lorraine  casts  its  long  brown  shadow  down  into 
the  heart  of  modern  Rome.  The  city  lies 
still  asleep  and  silent.  But  above  its  dark  roofs, 
more  than  two  hundred  steeples  catch  the  sunshine 
on  their  gilded  weathercocks.  Presently  the 
bells  begin  to  ring,  and,  as  the  artist  listens  to 
their  pleasant  chimes,  he  knows  that  in  each  of 
those  churches,  over  the  high  altar,  hangs  a  paint 
ing  by  some  great  master's  hand,  whose  beauty 
comes  between  him  and  heaven,  so  that  he  can 
not  pray,  but  wonder  only. 

"  Among  these  works  of  art  he  passes  the  day  ; 
but  oftenest  in  St.  Peter's  and  the  Vatican.  Up 
the  vast  marble  staircase,  —  through  the  Corri 
dor  Chiaramonti,  — through  vestibules,  galleries, 
chambers,  —  he  passes,  as  in  a  dream.  All  are 
filled  with  busts  and  statues,  or  painted  in  daring 
frescoes.  What  forms  of  strength  and  beauty  ! 
what  glorious  creations  of  the  human  mind  !  and 
in  that  last  chamber  of  all,  standing  alone  upon 
his  pedestal,  the  Apollo  found  at  Actium,  —  in 
such  a  majestic  attitude,  —  with  such  a  noble 
countenance,  life-like,  god-like  ! 


A    ROMANCE.  235 

"  Or  perhaps  he  passes  into  the  chambers  of 
the  painters  ;  but  goes  no  further  than  the  second. 
For  in  the  middle  of  that  chamber  a  large  paint 
ing  stands  upon  the  heavy  easel,  as  if  unfinished  , 
though  more  than  three  hundred  years  ago  the 
great  artist  completed  it,  and  then  laid  his  pencil 
away  for  ever,  leaving  this  last  benediction  to  the 
world.  It  is  the  Transfiguration  of  Christ,  by  Ra 
phael.  A  child  looks  not  at  the  stars  with  great 
er  wonder  than  the  artist  at  this  painting.  He 
knows  how  many  studious  years  are  in  that  pic 
ture.  He  knows  the  difficult  path  that  leads  to 
perfection,  having  himself  taken  some  of  the  first 
steps.  Thus  he  recalls  the  hour,  when  that 
broad  canvass  was  first  stretched  upon  its  frame, 
and  Raphael  stood  before  it,  and  laid  the  first  col 
ors  upon  it,  and  beheld  the  figures  one  by  one  born 
into  life,  and  '  looked  upon  the  work  of  his  own 
hands  with  a  smile,  that  it  should  have  succeeded 
so  well.'  He  recalls,  too,  the  hour,  when,  the 
task  accomplished,  the  pencil  dropped  from  the 
master's  dying  hand,  and  his  eyes  closed  to  open 
on  a  more  glorious  transfiguration,  and  at  length 
the  dead  Raphael  lay  in  his  own  studio,  before 
this  wonderful  painting,  more  glorious  than  any 
conqueror  under  the  banners  and  armorial  hatch 
ments  of  his  funeral  ! 


236  HYPERION, 

"  Think  you  that  such  sights  and  thoughts  as 
these  do  not  move  the  heart  of  a  young  man  and 
£n  artist  ?  And  when  he  goes  forth  into  the  open 
air,  the  sun  is  going  down,  and  the  gray  ruins  of 
an  antique  world  receive  him.  From  the  Palace 
of  the  Caesars  he  looks  down  into  the  Forum,  or 
towards  the  Coliseum  ;  or  westward  sees  the  last 
sunshine  strike  the  bronze  Archangel  which 
stands  upon  the  Tomb  of  Adrian.  He  walks 
amid  a  world  of  Art  in  ruins.  The  very  street- 
lamps,  that  light  him  homeward,  burn  before 
some  painted  or  sculptured  image  of  the  Madon 
na  !  What  wonder  is  it,  if  dreams  visit  him  in 
his  sleep,  —  nay,  if  his  whole  life  seem  to  him  a 
dream  ?  What  wonder,  if,  with  a  feverish  heart 
and  quick  hand,  he  strive  to  reproduce  those 
dreams  in  marble  or  on  canvass  ?  " 

Foolish  Paul  Flemming  !  who  both  admired 
and  praised  this  little  sketch,  and  yet  was  too 
blind  to  see  that  it  was  written  from  the  heart, 
and  not  from  the  imagination  !  Foolish  Paul 
Flemming  !  who  thought  that  a  girl  of  twenty  could 
write  thus  without  a  reason  !  Close  upon  this 
followed  another  pencil  sketch,  which  he  likewise 
read,  with  her  permission.  It  was  this. 

"  The  whole  period  of  the  Middle  Ages  seems 


A    ROMANCE.  237 

very  strange  to  me.  At  times  I  cannot  persuade 
myself  that  such  things  could  have  been  as  his 
tory  tells  us  ;  that  such  a  strange  world  was  a 
part  of  our  world,  —  that  such  a  strange  life  was 
a  part  of  the  life  which  seems  to  us,  who  are 
living  it  now,  so  passionless  and  commonplace. 
It  is  only  when  I  stand  amid  ruined  castles,  that 
look  at  me  so  mournfully,  and  behold  the  heavy 
armor  of  old  knights,  hanging  upon  the  wainscot 
of  Gothic  chambers  ;  or  when  I  walk  amid  the 
aisles  of  some  dusky  minster,  whose  walls  are 
narrative  of  hoar  antiquity,  and  whose  very  bells 
have  bqen  baptized,  and  see  the  carved  oaken 
stalls  in  the  choir,  where  so  many  generations  of 
monks  have  sat  and  sung,  and  the  tombs,  where 
now  they  sleep  in  silence,  to  awake  no  more  to 
their  midnight  psalms  ;  —  it  is  only  at  such  times 
that  the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  a  reality 
to  me,  and  not  a  passage  in  romance. 

"  Likewise  the  illuminated  manuscripts  of  those 
ages  have  something  of  this  power  of  making  the 
dead  Past  a  living  Present  in  my  mind.  What 
curious  figures  are  emblazoned  on  the  creaking 
parchment,  making  its  yellow  leaves  laugh  with 
gay  colors  !  You  seem  to  come  upon  them  un 
awares.  Their  faces  have  an  expression  of  won- 


238  HYPERION, 

der.  They  seem  all  to  be  just  startled  from  then 
sleep  by  the  sound  you  made  when  you  unloosed 
the  brazen  clasps,  and  opened  the  curiously  carved 
oaken  covers,  that  turn  on  hinges,  like  the  great 
gates  of  a  city.  To  the  building  of  that  city  some 
diligent  monk  gave  the  whole  of  a  long  life. 
Witli  what  strange  denizens  he  peopled  it !  Ad 
am  and  Eve  standing  under  a  tree,  with  apples 
in  their  hands; — the  patriarch  Abraham,  with 
a  tree  growing  out  of  his  body,  and  his  descend 
ants  sitting  like  owls  upon  its  branches  ;  —  la 
dies  with  flowing  locks  of  gold  ;  knights  in  ar 
mor,  with  most  fantastic,  long-toed  shoes ;  jousts 
and  tournaments  ;  and  Minnesingers,  and  lovers 
whose  heads  reach  to  the  towers  where  their  la 
dies  sit  ;  —  and  all  so  angular,  so  naive,  so 
childlike,  —  all  in  such  simple  attitudes,  with  such 
great  eyes,  and  holding  up  such  long,  lank  fin 
gers  !  —  These  things  are  characteristic  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  persuade  me  of  the  truth  of 
history." 

At  this  moment  Berkley  entered,  with  a  Swiss 
cottage,  which  he  had  bought  as  a  present  for 
somebody's  child  in  England  ;  and  a  cane  with  a 
chamois-horn  on  the  end  of  it,  which  he  had 
bought  as  a  present  for  himself.  This  was  the 


A    ROMANCE.  239 

first  time  that  Flemming  had  been  sorry  to  see  the 
good-natured  man,  whose  presence  now  interrupt 
ed  the  delightful  conversation  he  was  carrying  on 
"under  four  eyes  "with  Mary  Ashburton.  He 
really  thought  him  tedious,  and  wondered  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  before.  Mrs.  Ashburton, 
too,  must  needs  lay  down  her  book  ;  and  the  con 
versation  became  general.  Strange  to  say,  the 
Swiss  dinner-hour,  of  one  o'clock,  did  not  come  a 
moment  too  soon  for  Flemming.  It  did  not  even 
occur  to  him  that  it  was  early  ;  for  he  was  seated 
beside  Mary  Ashburton  ;  and  at  dinner  one  can 
say  so  much,  without  being  overheard. 


240  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AFTER    DINNER,    AND    AFTER   THE    MANNER    OP 
THE    BEST    CRITICS. 

WHEN  the  learned  Thomas  Diafoirus  wooed 
the  fair  Angelique,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
medical  thesis,  and  presented  it  to  her,  as  the 
first-fruits  of  his  genius  ;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
invited  her,  with  her  father's  permission,  to  attend 
the  dissection  of  a  woman,  upon  whom  he  was  to 
lecture.  Paul  Flemming  did  nearly  the  same 
thing  ;  and  so  often,  that  it  had  become  a  habit. 
He  was  continually  drawing  from  his  pocket  or 
his  memory  some  scrap  of  song  or  story  ;  and 
inviting  some  fair  Angelique,  either  with  her  fa 
ther's  permission  or  without,  to  attend  the  dissec 
tion  of  an  author  upon  whom  he  was  to  lecture. 
He  soon  gave  proofs  of  this  to  Mary  Ashburton. 

"  What  books    have    we    here    for   afternoon 
reading  ?  "  said  Flemming,  taking  a  volume  from 


A    ROMANCE.  24) 

the  table,  when  they  had  returned  from  the  din 
ing-room.  "  O,  it  is  Uhland's  Poems.  Have 
you  read  any  thing  of  his  ?  He  and  Tieck  are 
generally  considered  the  best  living  poets  of  Ger 
many.  They  dispute  the  palm  of  superiority. 
Let  me  gixre  you  a  lesson  in  German,  this  after 
noon,  Miss  Ashburton  ;  so  that  no  one  may  ac 
cuse  you  of  *  omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time, 
to  clothe  your  age  with  angel-like  perfection.'  I 
have  opened  at  random  upon  the  ballad  of  the 
Black  Knight.  Do  you  repeat  the  German  after 
me,  and  I  will  translate  to  you.  Pfingsten  war, 
das  Fest  der  Freude  ! " 

u  I  should  never  persuade  my  unwilling  lips  to 
pronounce  such  sounds.  So  I  beg  you  not  to 
perplex  me  with  your  German,  but  read  me  the 
ballad  in  English." 

"  Well,  then,  listen.  I  will  improvise  a  trans 
lation  for  your  own  particular  benefit. 

"  'T  was  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 
Tims  began  the  king,  and  spake  : 
'  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls 
A  luxuriant  spring  shall  break." 

"  Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

16 


242  HYPERIOIS, 

From  balcony  the  king  looked  on  • 

In  the  play  of  spears, 

Fell  all  the  cavaliers 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  bon. 

"  To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  knight. 
*  Sir  Knight !  your  name  and  scutcheon'  say 
'  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  j 
I  'in  a  prince  of  mighty  sway  ' ' 

"  When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 
The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 
And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow, 

Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow,  — 
Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

*'  Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 
Torchlignt  through  the  high  halls  glances, 
Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 
Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  : 

"  Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird   and  dark, 
Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 
Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

"  To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  knight  and  every  dame 


A    ROMANCE.  243 

'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  king  reclined, 
Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

"  Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  : 
'  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole ! ' 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  : 
'  O,  that  draught  was  very  cool  ! ' 

"  Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter ;  and  their  faces 
Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 

Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 
Pie  beholds  his  children  die. 

" '  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  : 
Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father ! ' 
Spake  the  grim  guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast : 
'  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  ! '  " 

"  That  is  indeed  a  striking  ballad  !  "  said  Miss 
Ashburton,  "  but  rather  too  grim  and  ghostly  for 
this  dull  afternoon." 

"  It  begins  joyously  enough  with  the  feast  of 
Pentecost,  and  the  crimson  banners  at  the  old 
castle.  Then  the  contrast  is  well  managed.  The 


244  HYPERION, 

knight  in  black  mail,  and  the  waving  in  of  the 
mighty  shadow  in  the  dance,  and  the  dropping  of 
die  faded  flowers,  are  all  strikingly  presented  to 
the  imagination.  However,  it  tells  its  own  story, 
and  needs  no  explanation.  Here  is  something 
in  a  different  vein,  though  still  melancholy.  The 
Castle  by  the  Sea.  Shall  I  read  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  like." 

Flemming  read  :  — 

** '  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"  *  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 

Tb  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow.' 

"  *  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.' 

** '  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers,, 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme?  ' 

** '  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
They  rested  quietly ; 


A    ROMANCE.  245 

But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye.' 

' '  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  king  and  his  royal  bride, 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles, 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

"'Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there, 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  ' 

"  *  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 
Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe , 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  ! ' 

"  How  do  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  graceful,  and  pretty.  But  Uhland 
seems  to  leave  a  great  deal  to  his  reader's  imagi 
nation.  All  his  readers  should  be  poets  them 
selves,  or  they  will  hardly  comprehend  him.  I 
confess,  I  hardly  understand  the  passage  where 
he  speaks  of  the  castle's  stooping  downward  to 
the  mirrored  wave  below,  and  then  soaring  up 
ward  into  the  gleaming  sky.  I  suppose,  however, 
he  wishes  to  express  the  momentary  illusion  we 
experience  when  beholding  a  perfect  reflection  of 
an  old  tower  in  the  sea.  We  look  at  it  as  if  it 


246  HYPERION, 

were  not  a  mere  shadow  in  the  water  ;  and  yet 
the  real  tower  rises  far  above,  and  seems  to  float 
in  the  crimson  evening  clouds.  Is  that  the  mean 
ing  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  it  was.  To  me  it  is  all  a 
beautiful  cloud  landscape,  which  I  comprehend 
and  feel,  and  yet  should  find  some  difficulty  per 
haps  in  explaining." 

"  And  why  need  one  always  explain  ?  Some 
feelings  are  quite  untranslatable.  No  language 
has  yet  been  found  for  them.  They  gleam  upon 
us  beautifully  through  the  dim  twilight  of  fancy, 
and  yet,  when  we  bring  them  close  to  us,  and 
hold  them  up  to  the  light  of  reason,  lose  their 
beauty,  all  at  once  ;  as  glowworms,  which  gleam 
with  such  a  spiritual  light  in  the  shadows  of 
evening,  when  brought  in  where  the  candles  are 
lighted,  are  found  to  be  only  worms,  like  so 
many  others." 

"  Very  true.  We  ought  sometimes  to  be  con 
tent  with  feeling.  Here,  now,  is  an  exquisite 
piece,  which  soothes  one  like  the  fall  of  evening 
shadows,  —  like  the  dewy  coolness  of  twilight  af 
ter  a  sultry  day.  I  shall  not  give  you  a  bald 
translation  of  my  own,  because  I  have  laid  up  in 
my  memory  another,  which,  though  not  very  lit- 


A    ROMANCE.  247 

J 

eral,  equals  the  original  in  beauty.     Observe  how 
finely  it  commences. 

"  Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave, 

Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave, 

And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 

Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

if 
"  Then,  in  this  same  boat,  beside, 

Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried; 

One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 

One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

"  One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

"  So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 
Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 
Friends,  who  closed  their  course  before  me. 

"Yet  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more  ! 

"  Take,  O  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee  ; 
Take,  —  I  give  it  willingly; 
For,  invisible  to  thee, 
Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me  !  " 

(<  O,  that  is  beautiful,  —  '  beautiful  exceeding 
ly  ! »     Who  translated  it  ?  " 


248  HYPERION, 

**  1  do  not  know.     I  wish  I  could  find  him  out 
It  is  certainly   admirably  done  ;    though  in    the 
measure  of  the  original  there  is  something  like 
the  rocking  motion  of  a  boat,  which  is  not  pre 
served  in  the  translation." 

"  And  is  Uhland  always   so  soothing  and  spir 
itual  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  generally  looks  into  the  spirit- world. 
I  am  now  trying  to  find  here  a  little  poem  on  the 
Death  of  a  Country  Clergyman,  in  which  he  in 
troduces  a  striking  picture.  But  I  cannot  turn  to 
it.  No  matter.  He  describes  the  spirit  of  the 
good  old  man,  returning  to  earth  on  a  bright  sum 
mer  morning,  and  standing  amid  the  golden  corn 
and  the  red  and  blue  flowers,  and  mildly  greeting 
the  reapers  as  of  old.  But  there  is  nothing  mor 
bid  in  Uhland's  mind.  He  is  always  fresh  and 
invigorating,  like  a  breezy  morning.  In  this  he 
differs  entirely  from  such  writers  as  Salis  and 
Matthisson." 

"  And  who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Two  melancholy  gentlemen  to  whom  life  was 
only  a  Dismal  Swamp,  upon  whose  margin  they 
walked  with  cambric  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands, 
sobbing  and  sighing,  and  making  signals  to  Death 
to  come  and  ferry  them  over  the  lake.  And  now 


A    ROMANCE.  249 

their  spirits  stand  in  the  green  fields  of  German 
song  like  two  weeping-willows  bending  over  a 
grave.  To  read  their  poems  is  like  wandering 
through  a  village  church-yard  on  a  summer  even 
ing,  reading  the  inscriptions  upon  the  grave-stones, 
and  recalling  sweet  images  of  the  departed  ; 
while  above  you, 

*  Hark  !  in  the  holy  grove  of  palms, 

Where  the  stream  of  life  runs  free, 
Echoes,  in  the  angels'  psalms, 
"  Sister  spirit !  hail  to  thee !  "  ' 

"  How  musically  those  lines  flow  !  Are  they 
Matthisson's  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  and  they  do  indeed  flow  musically.  1 
wish  I  had  his  poems  here.  I  should  like  to  read 
to  you  his  Elegy  on  the  Ruins  of  an  Ancient 
Castle.  It  is  an  imitation  of  Gray's  Elegy.  You 
have  been  at  Baden-Baden  ? 

"  Yes  ;  last  summer." 

"  And  have  not  forgotten " 

**  The  old  castle  ?  Of  course  not.  What  a 
magnificent  ruin  it  is  !  " 

11  That  is  the  scene  of  Matthisson's  poem,  and 
seems  to  have  filled  the  melancholy  bard  with 
more  than  wonted  inspiration." 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  the  poem,  — 
T  remember  that  old  ruin  with  so  much  delight." 


250  HYPERION, 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  a  translation  of  it  for 
you.  Instead  of  it,  I  will  give  you  a  sweet  and 
mournful  poem  from  Salis.  It  is  called  The  Song 
of  the  Silent  Land. 

"  Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gathet, 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  O,  thither, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

lt  Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning-visions 
Of  beauteous  souls !     The  Future's  pledge  and  band  ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

"  O  Land  !    O  Land  ' 
For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Is  not  that  a  beautiful  poem  ? " 

Mary  Ashburton  made  no  answer.  She  had 
turned  away  to  hide  her  tears.  Flemming  won- 


A    ROMANCE.  251 

dered  that  Berkley  could  say  she  was  not  beauti 
ful.  Still  he  was  rather  pleased  than  offended  at 
it.  He  felt  at  that  moment  how  sweet  a  thing  it 
would  be  to  possess  one  who  should  seem  beau 
tiful  to  him  alone,  and  yet  to  him  be  more  beau 
tiful  than  all  the  world  beside  !  How  bright  the 
world  became  to  him  at  that  thought !  It  was 
like  one  of  those  paintings  in  which  all  the  light 
streams  from  the  face  of  the  Virgin.  O,  there  is 
nothing  holier,  in  this  life  of  ours,  than  the  first 
consciousness  of  love,  —  the  first  fluttering  of  its 
silken  wings  ;  the  first  rising  sound  and  breath  of 
that  wind  which  is  so  soon  to  sweep  through  the 
soul,  to  purify  or  to  destroy ! 

Old  histories  tell  us  that  the  great  Emperor 
Charlemagne  stamped  his  edicts  with  the  hilt  of 
his  sword.  The  greater  emperor,  Death,  stamps 
his  with  the  blade  ;  and  they  are  signed  and  ex 
ecuted  with  the  same  stroke.  Flemming  recehed 
that  night  a  letter  from  Heidelberg,  which  told 
him  that  Emma  of  Ilmenau  was  dead.  The 
fate  of  this  poor  girl  affected  him  deeply  ;  and  he 
said  in  his  heart  :  — 

"  Father  in  heaven  !  Why  was  the  lot  of 
this  weak  and  erring  child  so  hard  ?  What  had 
she  done,  to  be  so  tempted  in  her  weakness,  and 


252  HYPERION, 

perish  ?    Why  didst  thou  suffer  her  gentle  afFec 
tions  to  lead  her  thus  astray  ?  " 

And,  through  the  silence  of  the  awful  midnight, 
the  voice  of  an  avalanche  answered  from  the  dis 
tant  mountains,  and  seemed  to  say  :  — 

"  Peace  !  peace  !  Why  dost  thou  question 
God's  providence  ?  " 


A    ROMANCE.  253 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TAKE    CARE  ! 

FAIR  is  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  with  its 
green  meadows  and  overhanging  cliffs.  The  ru- 
med  castle  of  Unspunnen  stands  like  an  armed 
warder  at  the  gate  of  the  enchanted  land.  In 
calm  serenity  the  snowy  mountains  rise  beyond. 
Fairer  than  the  Rock  of  Balmarusa,  yon  frowning 
precipice  looks  down  upon  us  ;  and,  from  the 
topmost  cliff,  the  white  pennon  of  the  Brook  of 
Dust  shimmers  and  waves  in  the  sunny  air  ! 

It  was  a  bright,  beautiful  morning  after  night- 
rain.  Every  dew-drop  and  rain-drop  had  a  whole 
heaven  within  it ;  and  so  had  the  heart  of  Paul 
Flemming,  as,  with  Mrs.  Ashburton  and  her 
dark-eyed  daughter,  he  drove  up  the  Valley  of 
Lauterbrunnen,  —  the  Valley  of  Fountains-Only. 

"  How  beautiful  the  Jungfrau  looks  this  morn 
ing  !  "  exclaimed  he,  looking  at  Mary  Ashburton. 


254  HYPERION, 

She  thought  he  meant  the  mountain,  and  assent 
ed.  But  he  meant  her  likewise. 

"  And  the  mountains  beyond,"  he  continued 
"  the  Monk  and  the  Silver-horn,  the  Wetter-horn, 
the  Schreck-horn,  and  the  Schwarz-horn,  —  all 
those  sublime  apostles  of  Nature,  whose  sermons 
are  avalanches  !  Did  you  ever  behold  any  thing 
more  grand  ?  " 

"  O,  yes  !  Mont  Blanc  is  more  grand,  when 
you  behold  it  from  the  hills  opposite.  It  was 
there  that  I  was  most  moved  by  the  magnificence 
of  Swiss  scenery.  It  was  a  morning  like  this  ; 
and  the  clouds,  that  were  hovering  about  on  their 
huge,  shadowy  wings,  made  the  scene  only  the 
more  magnificent.  Before  me  lay  the  whole  pan 
orama  of  the  Alps  ;  pine  forests  standing  dark 
and  solemn  at  the  base  of  the  mountains  ;  and 
half-way  up  a  veil  of  mist  ;  above  which  rose  the 
snowy  summits  and  sharp  needles  of  rock,  which 
seemed  to  float  in  the  air,  like  a  fairy  world. 
Then  the  glaciers  stood  on  either  side,  winding 
down  through  the  mountain  ravines  ;  and,  high 
above  all,  rose  the  white,  dome-like  summit  of 
Mont  Blanc.  And  ever  and  anon  from  the 
shroud  of  mist  came  the  awful  sound  of  an  ava 
lanche,  and  a  continual  roar,  as  of  the  wind 


A    ROMANCE.  255 

through  a  forest  of  pines,  filled  the  air.  It  was 
the  roar  of  the  Arve  and  Aveiron,  breaking  from 
their  icy  fountains.  Then  the  mists  began  to 
pass  away  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  firma 
ment  were  rolling  together.  It  recalled  to  my 
mind  that  sublime  passage  in  the  Apocalypse:  — 
'  I  saw  a  great  white  throne  ;  and  him  that  sat 
thereon ;  before  whose  face  the  heavens  and  the 
earth  tied  away,  and  found  no  place  ! '  I  can 
not  believe  that  upon  this  earth  there  is  a  more 
magnificent  scene  !  " 

"  It  mu^t  be  grand,  indeed,"  replied  Flem- 
ming.  "  And  those  mighty  glaciers,  —  huge 
monsters  with  bristling  crests,  creeping  down  into 
the  valley  !  for  it  is  said  they  really  move." 

"  Yes  ;  it  filled  me  with  a  strange  sensation  of 
awe  to  think  of  this.  They  seemed  to  me  like 
the  dragons  of  Northern  Romance,  which  come 
down  from  the  mountains  and  devour  whole  vil 
lages.  A  little  hamlet  in  Chamouni  was  once 
abandoned  by  its  inhabitants,  terrified  at  the  ap 
proach  of  the  icy  dragon.  But  is  it  possible  you 
have  never  been  at  Chamouni  ?  " 

"  Never.  The  great  marvel  still  remains  un 
seen  by  me." 

"  Then  how  can  you  linger  here  so  long  ? 
Were  I  in  your  place,  I  would  not  lose  an  hour. " 


256  HYPERION, 

These  words  passed  over  the  opening  blossoms 
of  hope  in  the  soul  of  Flemming  like  a  cold  wind 
over  the  flowers  in  spring-time.  He  bore  it  as 
best  he  could,  and  changed  the  subject. 

I  do  not  mean  to  describe  the  Valley  of  Lau- 
terbrunnen,  nor  the  bright  day  passed  there.  I 
know  that  my  gentle  reader  is  blessed  with  the 
divine  gift  of  a  poetic  fancy  ;  and  can  see  already 
how  the  mountains  rise,  and  the  torrents  fall,  and 
the  beautiful  valley  lies  between  ;  and  how,  along 
the  dusty  road,  the  herdsman  blows  his  horn,  and 
travellers  come  and  go  in  charabans,  like  Punch 
and  Judy  in  a  show-box.  He  knows  already  how 
romantic  ladies  sketch  romantic  scenes  ;  and  how 
cold  meat  tastes  under  the  shadow  of  trees  ;  and 
how  time  flies,  when  we  are  in  love,  and  the  be 
hoved  one  near.  One  little  incident  I  must,  how 
ever,  mention,  lest  his  fancy  should  not  suggest  it. 

Flemming  was  still  sitting  with  the  ladies  on 
the  green  slope  near  the  Staubbach,  or  Brook  of 
Dust,  when  a  young  man  clad  in  green  came 
down  the  valley.  It  was  a  German  mechanic, 
with  flaxen  ringlets  hanging  over  his  shoulders,  and 
a  guitar  in  his  hand.  His  step  was  free  and  elas 
tic,  and  his  countenance  wore  the  joyous  expres 
sion  of  youth  and  health.  He  approached  the 


A    ROMANCE  257 

company  with  a  courteous  salutation  ;  and,  after 
the  manner  of  travelling  apprentices,  asked  char 
ity  with  the  confident  air  of  one  unaccustomed  to 
refusal.  Nor  was  he  refused  in  this  instance. 
The  presence  of  those  we  love  makes  us  com 
passionate  and  generous.  Flemming  gave  him  a 
piece  of  gold  ;  and,  after  a  short  conversation, 
he  seated  himself,  at  a  little  distance,  on  the  grass, 
and  began  to  play  and  sing.  Wonderful  and  many 
were  the  soft  accords  and  plaintive  sounds  that 
came  from  that  little  instrument,  touched  by  the 
student's  hand.  Every  feeling  of  the  human  heart 
seemed  to  find  an  expression  there,  and  awaken 
a  kindred  feeling  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard 
him.  He  sang  strange  German  songs,  so  full  of 
longing,  and  of  pleasing  sadness,  and  hope,  and 
fear,  and  passionate  desire,  and  soul-subduing  sor 
row,  that  the  tears  came  into  Mary  Ashburton's 
eyes,  though  she  understood  not  the  words  he 
sang.  Then  his  countenance  glowed  with  tri 
umph,  and  he  beat  the  strings  like  a  drum,  and 
sang  :  — 

"  O,  how  the  drum  beats  so  loud  ! 
Close  beside  me  in  the  fight, 
My  dying  brother  says,  Good  Night ! 
17 


258  HYPERION, 

And  the  cannon's  awful  breath 
Screams  the  loud  halloo  of  Death  ! 

And  the  drum, 

And  the  drum, 

Beats  so  loud  !  " 

Many  were  the  words  of  praise,  when  the 
young  musician  ended  ;  and,  as  he  rose  to  depart, 
they  still  entreated  for  one  song  more.  Whereup 
on  he  played  a  lively  prelude  ;  and,  looking  full 
into  Flemming's  face,  sang,  with  a  pleasant  smile 
and  still  in  German,  this  little  song  :  — 

"  1  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see ; 

Take  care  ! 

She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be. 
Beware !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

**  She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown ; 

Take  care  ! 

She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down. 
Beware  !     Beware ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee ! 

**  And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue ; 

Take  care ! 

And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true. 
Beware  !     Beware ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ' 


A    ROMANCE.  259 

J 
"  She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow ; 

Take  care  ! 

| 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show. 

Beware  !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee ! 

I 
"  She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair ; 

Take  care  ! 

It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear. 
Beware !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee !  " 

The  last  stanza  he  sung  in  a  laughing,  trium 
phant  tone,  which  resounded  above  the  loud  clang 
of  his  guitar  like  the  jeering  laugh  of  Till  Eu- 
lenspiegel.  Then,  slinging  his  guitar  over  his 
shoulder,  he  took  off  his  green  cap,  and  made  a 
leg  to  the  ladies,  in  the  style  of  Gil  Bias  ;  vvaved 
his  hand  in  the  air,  and  walked  quickly  down  the 
valley,  singing,  "  Ade  !  Ade  !  Ado  I  " 


260  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    FOUNTAIN    OF    OBLIVION. 

THE  power  of  magic  in  the  Middle  Ages  ere 
ated  monsters  who  followed  the  unhappy  magi 
clan  everywhere.  The  power  of  love  in  all 
ages  creates  angels,  who  likewise  follow  the  happy 
or  unhappy  lover  everywhere,  even  in  his  dreams. 
By  such  an  angel  was  Paul  Flemming  now  haunt 
ed,  both  when  he  waked  and  when  he  slept.  He 
walked  as  in  a  dream,  and  was  hardly  conscious 
of  the  presence  of  those  around  him.  A  sweet 
face  looked  at  him  from  every  page  of  every 
book  he  read  ;  and  it  was  the  face  of  Mary  Ash- 
burton  !  —  a  sweet  voice  spake  to  him  in  every 
sound  he  heard  ;  and  it  was  the  voice  of  Mary 
Ashburton  !  Day  and  night  succeeded  each  other, 
with  pleasant  interchange  of  light  and  darkness  ; 
but  to  him  the  passing  of  time  was  only  as  a  dream. 
When  he  arose  in  the  morning,  he  thought  only 


A    ROMANCE.  261 

of  her,  and  wondered  if  she  were  yet  awake  ;  and 
when  he  lay  down  at  night,  he  thought  only  of 
her,  and  how,  like  the  Lady  Christabel, 

"  Her  gentle  limbs  she  did  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness." 

And  the  livelong  day  he  was  with  her,  either  in 
reality  or  in  day-dreams  hardly  less  real ;  for,  in 
each  delirious  vision  of  his  waking  hours,  her 
beauteous  form  passed  like  the  form  of  Beatrice 
through  Dante's  heaven  ;  and,  as  he  lay  in  the 
summer  afternoon,  and  heard  at  times  the  sound 
of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and  the  sound  of  Sabbath 
bells  ascending  up  to  heaven,  holy  wishes  and 
prayers  ascended  with  them  from  his  inmost  soul, 
beseeching  that  he  might  not  love  in  vain  !  And 
whenever,  in  silence  and  alone,  he  looked  into 
the  silent,  lonely  countenance  of  Night,  he  recall 
ed  the  impassioned  lines  of  Plato  :  — 

"  Lookest  thou  at  the  stars  ?    If  I  were  heaven, 
With  all  the  eyes  of  heaven  would  I  look  down  on  thee  !  " 

O,  how  beautiful  it  is  to  love  !  Even  thou,  tha 
sneerest  at  this  page,  and  laughest  in  cold  indiffer 
ence  or  scorn,  if  others  are  near  thee, — thou, 
too,  must  acknowledge  its  truth,  when  thou  art 
alone  ;  and  confess  that  a  foolish  world  is  prone  to 
laugh  in  public  at  what  in  private  it  reveres,  as 


262  HYPERION, 

one  of  the  highest  impulses  of  our  nature,  — 
namely,  Love  ! 

One  by  one  the  objects  of  our  affection  depart 
from  us.  But  our  affections  remain,  and  like 
vines  stretch  forth  their  broken,  wounded  tendrils 
for  support.  The  bleeding  heart  needs  a  balm 
to  heal  it  ;  and  there  is  none  but  the  love  of  its 
kind,  — none  but  the  affection  of  a  human  heart ! 
Thus  the  wounded,  broken  affections  of  Flemming 
began  to  lift  themselves  from  the  dust  and  cling 
around  this  new  object.  Days  and  weeks  pass 
ed  ;  and,  like  the  Student  Crisostomo,  he  ceased 
to  love,  because  he  began  to  adore.  And  with 
this  adoration  mingled  the  prayer,  that,  in  that  hour 
when  the  world  is  still,  and  the  voices  that  praise 
are  mute,  and  reflection  cometh  like  twilight, 
and  the  maiden,  in  her  day-dreams,  counted  the 
number  of  her  friends,  some  voice  in  the  sacred 
silence  of  her  thoughts  might  whisper  his  name  ! 

They  were  sitting  together  one  morning,  on 
the  green,  flowery  meadow,  under  the  ruins  of 
Burg  Unspunnen.  She  was  sketching  the  ruins. 
The  birds  were  singing,  one  and  all,  as  if  there 
were  no  aching  hearts,  no  sin  nor  sorrow,  in  the 
world.  So  motionless  was  the  bright  air,  that  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  lay  engraven  on  the  grass. 


A    ROMANCE.  2C"» 

The  distant  snow-peaks  sparkled  in  the  sun,  and 
nothing  frowned,  save  the  square  tower  of  the  old 
ruin  ahove  them. 

"What  a  pity  it  is,"  said  the  lady,  as  she 
stopped  to  rest  her  weary  fingers,  "what  a  pity 
it  is,  that  there  is  no  old  tradition  connected  with 
this  ruin  !  " 

"  I  will  make  you  one,  if  you  wish,"  said 
Flemming. 

"Can  you  make  old  traditions  ?  " 

"  O,  yes  !  I  made  three,  the  other  day,  about 
the  Rhine,  and  one  very  old  one  about  the  Black 
Forest.  A  lady  with  dishevelled  hair  ;  a  robber 
with  a  horrible  slouched  hat  ;  and  a  night  storm 
among  the  roaring  pines." 

"  Delightful !     Do  make  one  for  me." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure.  Where  will  you 
have  the  scene  ?  Here,  or  in  the  Black  For 
est  ?  " 

11  In  the  Black  Forest,  by  all  means  !    Begin." 

"  I  will  unite  this  ruin  and  the  forest  together. 
But  first  promise  not  to  interrupt  me.  If  you 
snap  the  golden  threads  of  thought,  they  will  float 
away  on  the  air  like  the  film  of  the  gossamer,  and 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  recover  them." 
promise." 


"I 


264  HYPERION, 

"  Listen,  then,  to  the  Tradition  of  'THE 
FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION.'  " 

"  Begin." 

Flernming  was  reclining  on  the  flowery  turf,  a 
the  lady's  feet,  looking  up  with  dreamy  eyes  into 
her  sweet  face,  and  then  into  the  leaves  of  the 
linden-trees  overhead. 

"  Gentle  Lady  !  Dost  thou  remember  the 
linden-trees  of  Biilach,  —  those  tall  and  stately 
trees,  with  velvet  down  upon  their  shining  leaves, 
and  rustic  benches  underneath  their  overhanging 
eaves  ?  A  leafy  dwelling,  fit  to  be  the  home  of  elf 
or  fairy,  where  first  I  told  my  love  to  thee,  thou 
cold  and  stately  Hermione  !  A  little  peasant  girl 
stood  near,  and  listened  all  the  while,  with  eyes  of 
wonder  and  delight,  and  an  unconscious  smile,  to 
hear  the  stranger  still  speak  on  in  accents  deep 
yet  mild,  —  none  else  was  with  us  in  that  hour, 
save  God  and  that  little  child  !  " 

"  Why,  it  is  in  rhyme  !  " 

11  No,  no  !  the  rhyme  is  only  in  your  imagina 
tion.  You  promised  not  to  interrupt  me,  and 
you  have  already  snapped  asunder  the  gossamer 
threads  of  as  sweet  a  dream  as  was  ever  spun  from 
a  poet's  brain." 

u  It  certainly  did  rhyme  !  " 


A    ROMANCE.  265 

"  This  was  the  reverie  of  the  Student  Hierony- 
mus,  as  he  sat  at  midnight  in  a  chamber  of  this 
old  tower,  with  his  hands  clasped  together,  ana 
resting  upon  an  open  volume,  which  he  should 
have  been  reading.  His  pale  face  was  raised, 
and  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated,  as  if  the  spirit- 
world  were  open  before  him,  and  some  beau 
teous  vision  were  standing  there,  and  drawing  the 
student's  soul  through  his  eyes  up  into  heaven,  — 
as  the  evening  sun,  through  parting  summer-clouds, 
seems  to  draw  into  its  bosom  the  vapors  of  the 
earth.  O,  it  was  a  lovely  vision  !  I  can  see  it 
before  me  now  ! 

"  Near  the  student  stood  an  antique  bronze 
lamp,  with  strange  figures  carved  upon  it.  It 
was  a  magic  lamp,  which  once  belonged  to  the 
Arabian  astrologer  El  Geber,  in  Spain.  Its  light 
was  beautiful  as  the  light  of  stars  ;  and,  night 
after  night,  as  the  lonely  wight  sat  alone  and  read 
in  this  lofty  tower,  through  the  mist,  and  mirk, 
and  dropping  rain,  it  streamed  out  into  the  dark 
ness,  and  was  seen  by  many  wakeful  eyes.  To 
the  poor  Student  Hieronymus  it  was  a  wonderful 
Aladdin's  Lamp  ;  for  in  its  flame  a  Divinity  re 
vealed  herself  unto  him,  and  showed  him  treasures. 
Whenever  he  opened  a  ponderous,  antiquated 


206  HYPERION, 

tome,  it  seemed  as  if  some  angel  opened  for  him 
the  gates  of  Paradise  ;  and  already  he  was  known 
in  the  land  as  Hieronymus  the  Learned. 

"  But,  alas  !  he  could  read  no  more.  The 
charm  was  broken.  Hour  after  hour  he  passed 
with  his  hands  clasped  before  him,  and  his  fair 
eyes  gazing  at  vacancy.  What  could  so  disturb 
the  studies  of  this  melancholy  wight  ?  Lady,  he 
was  in  love  !  Have  you  ever  been  in  love  ?  He 
had  seen  the  face  of  the  beautiful  Hermione  ;  and 
as,  when  we  have  thoughtlessly  looked  at  the  sun. 
our  dazzled  eyes,  though  closed,  behold  it  still  ; 
so  he  beheld  by  day  and  by  night  the  radiant 
image  of  her  upon  whom  he  had  too  rashly  gazed. 
Alas !  he  was  unhappy  ;  for  the  proud  Her 
mione  disdained  the  love  of  a  poor  student,  whose 
only  wealth  was  a  magic  lamp.  In  marble  halls, 
and  amid  the  gay  crowd  that  worshipped  her,  she 
had  almost  forgotten  that  such  a  being  lived  as  the 
Student  Hieronymus.  The  adoration  of  his 
heart  had  been  to  her  only  as  the  perfume  of  a 
wild-flower  which  she  had  carelessly  crushed 
with  her  foot,  in  passing.  But  he  had  lost  all  ; 
for  he  had  lost  the  quiet  of  his  thoughts  ;  and  his 
agitated  soul  reflected  only  broken  and  distorted 
images  of  things.  The  world  laughed  at  the  poor 


A    ROMANCE.  267 

student,  who,  in  his  threadbare  cassock,  dared  to 
lift  his  eyes  to  the  Lady  Hermione  ;  while  he  sat 
alone,  in  his  desolate  chamber,  and  suffered  in 
silence.  He  remembered  many  things  which  he 
would  fain  have  forgotten  ;  but  which,  if  he  had 
forgotten  them,  he  would  have  wished  again  to 
remember.  Such  were  the  linden-trees  of  Bii- 
lach,  under  whose  pleasant  shades  he  had  told  his 
love  to  Hermione.  This  was  the  scene  which  he 
wished  most  to  forget,  yet  loved  most  to  remem 
ber  ;  and  of  this  he  was  now  dreaming,  with  his 
nands  clasped  upon  his  book,  and  that  music  in 
his  thoughts,  which  you,  Lady,  mistook  for 
rhyme. 

"  Suddenly,  with  a  melancholy  clang,  the  con 
vent  clock  struck  twelve.  It  roused  the  Student 
Hieronymus  from  his  dream  ;  and  rang  in  his 
ears,  like  the  iron  hoofs  of  the  steeds  of  Time. 
The  magic  hour  had  come,  when  the  Divinity 
of  the  lamp  most  willingly  revealed  herself  to 
her  votary.  The  bronze  figures  seemed  alive  ; 
a  white  cloud  rose  from  the  flame  and  spread 
itself  through  the  chamber,  whose  four  walls 
dilated  into  magnificent  cloud-vistas  ;  a  fra 
grance,  as  of  wild-flowers,  filled  the  air  ;  and  a 
dreamy  music,  like  distant,  sweet-chiming  bells, 


268  HYPERION, 

announced  the  approach  of  the  midnight  Divinity. 
Through  his  streaming  tears  the  heart-broken 
Student  beheld  her  once  more  descending  a  pass 
in  the  snowy  cloud-mountains,  as,  at  evening,  the 
dewy  Hesperus  comes  from  the  bosom  of  the 
mist,  and  assumes  his  station  in  the  sky.  At  her 
approach,  his  spirit  grew  more  calm  ;  for  her 
presence  was,  to  his  feverish  heart,  like  a  tropical 
night, — beautiful  and  soothing  and  invigorating. 
At  length  she  stood  before  him,  revealed  in  all  her 
beauty  ;  and  he  comprehended  the  visible  language 
of  her  sweet  but  silent  lips,  which  seemed  to  say, 
— '  What  would  the  Student  Hieronymus  to 
night  ? '  — '  Peace  ! '  he  answered,  raising  his 
clasped  hands,  and  smiling  through  his  tears. 
'  The  Student  Hieronymus  implorcth  peace  !  ' 
'  Then  go,'  said  the  spirit,  '  go  to  the  Fountain 
of  Oblivion  in  the  deepest  solitude  of  the  Black 
Forest,  and  cast  this  scroll  into  its  waters  ;  and 
thou  shall  be  at  peace  once  more.'  Hieronymus 
opened  his  arms  to  embrace  the  Divinity,  for  her 
countenance  assumed  the  features  of  Hermione  ; 
but  she  vanished  away  ;  the  music  ceased  ;  the 
gorgeous  cloud-land  sank  and  fell  asunder  ;  and 
the  student  was  alone  within  the  four  bare  walls 
of  his  chamber.  As  he  bowed  his  head  down- 


A    ROMANCE. 

ward,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  parchment  scroll,  which 
was  lying  beside  the  lamp.  Upon  it  was  written 
only  the  name  of  Hermione  ! 

"  The  next  morning  Hieronymus  put  the  scroll 
into  his  bosom,  and  went  his  way  in  search  of  the 
Fountain  of  Oblivion.  A  few  days  brought  him 
to  the  skirts  of  the  Black  Forest.  He  entered, 
not  without  a  feeling  of  dread,  that  land  of 
shadows  ;  and  passed  onward  under  melancholy 
jpines  and  cedars,  whose  branches  grew  abroad 
and  mingled  together,  and,  as  they  swayed  up  and 
down,  filled  the  air  with  solemn  twilight  and  a 
sound  of  sorrow.  As  he  advanced  into  the  for 
est,  the  waving  moss  hung,  like  curtains,  from 
the  branches  overhead,  and  more  and  more  shut 
out  the  light  of  heaven  ;  and  he  knew  that  the 
Fountain  of  Oblivion  was  not  far  off.  Even 
then  the  sound  of  falling  waters  was  mingling  with 
the  roar  of  the  pines  above  him  ;  and  ere  long 
he  came  to  a  river,  moving  in  solemn  majesty 
through  the  forest,  and  falling  with  a  dull,  leaden 
sound  into  a  motionless  and  stagnant  lake,  above 
which  the  branches  of  the  forest  met  and  mingled, 
forming  perpetual  night.  This  was  the  Fountain 
of  Oblivion. 

"  Upon  its  brink  the  Student  paused,  and  gazed 


270  HYPERION, 

into  the  dark  waters  with  a  steadfast  look.  They 
were  limpid  waters,  dark  with  shadows  only. 
And  as  he  gazed,  he  beheld,  far  down  in  their 
silent  depths,  dim  and  ill-defined  outlines,  waver 
ing  to  and  fro,  like  the  folds  of  a  white  garment 
in  the  twilight.  Then  more  distinct  and  perma 
nent  shapes  arose, — shapes  familiar  to  his  mind, 
yet  forgotten  and  remembered  again,  as  the  frag 
ments  of  a  dream ;  till  at  length,  far,  far  below 
him  he  beheld  the  great  City  of  the  Past,  with 
silent  marble  streets,  and  moss-grown  walls,  and 
spires  uprising  with  a  wave-like,  flickering  motion. 
And,  amid  the  crowd  that  thronged  those  streets, 
he  beheld  faces  once  familiar  and  dear  to  him  ; 
and  heard  sorrowful,  sweet  voices  singing,  '  O, 
forget  us  not !  forget  us  not  !  '  and  then  the  dis 
tant,  mournful  sound  of  funeral  bells,  that  were 
tolling  below,  in  the  City  of  the  Past.  But  in  the 
gardens  of  that  city  there  were  children  playing, 
and  among  them  one  who  wore  his  features,  as 
they  had  been  in  childhood.  He  was  leading  a 
little  girl  by  the  hand,  and  caressed  her  often,  and 
adorned  her  with  flowers.  Then,  like  a  dream, 
the  scene  changed,  and  the  boy  had  grown  older, 
and  stood  alone,  gazing  into  the  sky  ;  and,  as  he 
gazed,  his  countenance  changed  again,  and  Hie 


A    ROMANCE.  271 

ronymus  beheld  him,  as  if  it  had  been  his  own 
image  in  the  clear  water ;  and  before  him  stood  a 
beauteous  maiden,  whose  face  was  like  the  face 
of  Hermione,  and  he  feared  lest  the  scroll  had 
fallen  into  the  water,  as  he  bent  over  it.  Start 
ing,  as  from  a  dream,  he  put  his  hand  into  his 
bosom,  and  breathed  freely  again,  when  he  found 
the  scroll  still  there.  He  drew  it  forth,  and  read 
the  blessed  name  of  Hermione,  and  the  city 
beneath  him  vanished  away,  and  the  air  grew 
fragrant  as  with  the  breath  of  May-flowers,  and  a 
light  streamed  through  the  shadowy  forest  and 
gleamed  upon  the  lake  ;  and  the  Student  Hierony- 
mus  pressed  the  dear  name  to  his  lips  and  ex 
claimed,  with  streaming  eyes  :  '  O,  scorn  me  as 
thou  wilt,  still,  still  will  I  love  thee  ;  and  thy 
name  shall  irradiate  the  gloom  of  my  life,  and 
make  the  waters  of  Oblivion  smile  ! '  And  the 
name  was  no  longer  Hermione,  but  was  changed 
to  Mary  ;  and  the  Student  Hieronymus  —  is 
lying  at  your  feet.  O  gentle  Lady  ' 

*  I  did  hear  you  talk 

Far  above  singing;  after  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so  !     Alas  !     I  found  it  love.'  " 


272  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A   TALK    ON    THE    STAIRS. 

t 

No  !  I  will  not  describe  that  scene  ;  nor  how 
pale  the  stately  lady  sat  on  the  border  of  the 
green,  sunny  meadow  !  The  hearts  of  some 
women  tremble  like  leaves  at  every  breath  of 
love  which  reaches  them,  and  then  are  still 
again.  Others,  like  the  ocean,  are  moved  only 
by  the  breath  of  a  storm,  and  not  so  easily  lulled 
to  rest.  And  such  was  the  proud  heart  of  Mary 
Ashburton.  It  had  remained  unmoved  by  the 
presence  of  this  stranger  ;  and  the  sound  of  his 
footsteps  and  his  voice  excited  in  it  no  emotion. 
He  had  deceived  himself!  Silently  they  walk 
ed  homeward  through  the  green  meadow.  The 
very  sunshine  was  sad  ;  and  the  rising  wind, 
through  the  old  ruin  above  them,  sounded  in  his 
ears  like  a  hollow  laugh  ! 

Flemming  went  straight  to  his  chamber.  On 
the  way,  he  passed  the  walnut-trees  under  which 


A    ROMANCE.  273 

he  bad  first  seen  the  face  of  Mary  Ashburton. 
Involuntarily  he  closed  his  eyes.  They  were 
full  of  tears.  O,  there  are  places  in  this  fair 
world,  which  we  never  wish  to  see  again,  how 
ever  dear  they  may  be  to  us  !  The  towers  of 
the  old  Franciscan  convent  never  looked  so 
gloomily  as  then,  though  the  bright  summer  sun 
was  shining  full  upon  them. 

In  his  chamber  he  found  Berkley.  He  was 
looking  out  of  the  window,  whistling. 

"  This  evening  I  leave  Interlachen  for  ever," 
said  Flemming,  rather  abruptly.  Berkley  star 
ed. 

"  Indeed  !  Pray,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You 
look  as  pale  as  a  ghost  !  " 

"  And  have  good  reason  to  look  pale,"  replied 
Flemming  bitterly.  "  Hoffmann  says,  in  one  of 
his  note-books,  that,  on  the  eleventh  of  March, 
at  half  past  eight  o'clock,  precisely,  he  was  an 
ass.  That  is  what  I  was  this  morning,  at  half  past 
ten  o'clock,  precisely,  and  am  now,  and  I  sup 
pose  always  shall  be." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  could  not.  He  then  re 
lated  to  Berkley  the  whole  story,  from  beginning 
to  end. 

"  This  is  a  miserable  piece  of  business  !  "  ex- 
18 


274  HYPERION, 

claimed  Berkley,  when  he  had  finished.  "  Strange 
enough  !  And  yet  I  have  long  ceased  to  marvel 
at  the  caprices  of  women.  Did  not  Pan  capti 
vate  the  chaste  Diana  ?  Did  not  Titania  love 
Nick  Bottom,  with  his  ass's  head.  Do  you  think 
that  maidens'  eyes  are  no  longer  touched  with  the 
juice  of  love-in-idleness  ?  Take  my  word  for  it, 
she  is  in  love  with  somebody  else.  There  must 
be  some  reason  for  this.  No  ;  women  never  have 
any  reasons,  except  their  will.  But  never  mind. 
Keep  a  stout  heart.  Care  killed  a  cat.  After 
all,  —  what  is  she  ?  Who  is  she  ?  Only  a " 

"  Hush  !  hush,"  exclaimed  Flemming,  in  great 
excitement.  "  Not  one  word  more,  I  beseech 
you.  Do  not  think  to  console  me,  by  depreciat 
ing  her.  She  is  very  dear  to  me  still ;  a  beauti 
ful,  high-minded,  noble  woman." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Berkley ;  "  that  is  the  way 
with  you  all,  you  young  men.  You  see  a  sweet 
face,  or  a  something,  you  know  not  what,  and 
flickering  reason  says,  Good  night ;  amen  to  com 
mon  sense  !  The  imagination  invests  the  beloved 
object  with  a  thousand  superlative  charms  ;  adorns 
her  with  all  the  purple  and  fine  linen,  all  the  rich 
apparel  and  furniture,  of  human  nature.  I  did 
the  same,  when  I  was  young.  I  was  once  as  des- 


A    ROMANCE.  275 

perately  in  love  as  you  are  now  ;  and  went  through 
all  the 

'  Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 
Of  soul,  dear  and  divine  annihilations; 
A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  delights.' 

I  adored,  and  was  rejected.  '  You  are  in  love 
with  certain  attributes,'  said  the  lady.  '  Damn 
your  attributes,  Madam,'  said  I ;  '  I  know  noth 
ing  of  attributes.'  *  Sir,'  said  she,  with  dignity, 
'you  have  been  drinking.'  So  we  parted.  She 
was  married  afterwards  to  another,  who  knew 
something  about  attributes,  I  suppose.  I  have 
seen  her  once  since,  and  only  once.  She  had  a 
baby  in  a  yellow  gown.  I  hate  a  baby  in  a  yel 
low  gown.  How  glad  I  am  she  did  not  marry 
me  !  One  of  these  days,  you  will  be  glad  you 
have  been  rejected.  Take  my  word  for  it." 

"  All  that  does  not  prevent  my  lot  from  being 
a  very  melancholy  one  !  "  said  Flemming  sadly. 

"  O,  never  mind  the  lot,"  cried  Berkley  laugh 
ing,  "  so  long  as  you  do  n't  get  Lot's  wife.  If 
the  cucumber  is  bitter,  throw  it  away,  as  the  phi 
losopher  Marcus  Antoninus  says,  in  his  Medita 
tions.  Forget  her,  and  all  will  be  as  if  you  had 
not  known  her." 


276  HYPERION, 

*'  I  shall  never  forget  her,"  replied  Flemming, 
rather  solemnly.  "  Not  my  pride,  but  my  affec 
tions,  are  wounded ;  and  the  wound  is  too  deep 
ever  to  heal.  I  shall  carry  it  with  me  always.  1 
enter  no  more  into  the  world,  but  will  dwell  only 
in  the  world  of  my  own  thoughts.  All  great  and 
unusual  occurrences,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow, 
lift  us  above  this  earth  ;  and  we  should  do  well 
always  to  preserve  this  elevation.  Hitherto  I 
have  not  done  so.  But  now  I  will  no  more  de 
scend  ;  I  will  sit  apart  and  above  the  world,  with 
my  mournful,  yet  holy  thoughts." 

"  Whew  !  You  had  better  go  into  society  ;  the 
whirl  and  delirium  will  cure  you  in  a  week.  If 
you  find  a  lady  who  pleases  you  very  much,  and 
you  wish  to  marry  her,  and  she  will  not  listen  to 
such  a  horrid  thing,  I  see  but  one  remedy,  which 
is  to  find  another,  who  pleases  you  more,  and 
who  will  listen  to  it." 

"  No,  my  friend  ;  you  do  not  understand  my 
character,"  said  Flemming,  shaking  his  head.  "  I 
love  this  woman  with  a  deep  and  lasting  affec 
tion.  I  shall  never  cease  to  love  her.  This 
may  be  madness  in  me  ;  but  so  it  is.  Alas  and 
alas  !  I  aracelsus  of  old  wasted  life  in  trying  to 
discover  its  elixir,  which  after  all  turned  out  to  be 


A    ROMANCE.  277 

alcohol  ;  and  instead  of  being  made  immortal 
upon  earth,  he  died  drunk  on  the  floor  of  a  tav 
ern.  The  like  happens  to  many  of  us.  We 
waste  our  best  years  in  distilling  the  sweetest 
flowers  of  life  into  love-potions,  which  after  all 
do  not  immortalize,  but  only  intoxicate  us.  By 
Heaven  !  we  are  all  of  us  mad." 

"  But  are  you  sure  the  case  is  utterly  hope 
less  ?  " 

"  Utterly  !  utterly  !  " 

"  And  yet  I  perceive  you  have  not  laid  aside 
all  hope.  You  still  flatter  yourself  that  the  lady's 
heart  may  change.  The  great  secret  of  happi 
ness  consists  not  in  enjoying,  but  in  renouncing. 
But  it  is  hard,  very  hard.  Hope  has  as  many 
lives  as  a  cat  or  a  king.  I  dare  say  you  have 
heard  the  old  proverb,  '  The  king  never  dies.' 
But  perhaps  you  have  never  heard,  that,  at  the 
court  of  Naples,  when  the  dead  body  of  a  mon 
arch  lies  in  state,  his  dinner  is  carried  up  to  him 
as  usual,  and  the  court  physician  tastes  it,  to  see 
that  it  be  not  poisoned,  and  then  the  servants  bear 
it  out  again,  saying,  *  The  king  does  not  dine  to 
day.'  Hope  in  our  souls  is  king  ;  and  we  also 
say,  '  The  king  never  dies.'  Even  when  in  re 
ality  he  lies  dead  within  us,  in  solemn  mockery 


278  HYPERION, 

we  offer  him  his  accustomed  food,  but  are  con 
strained  to  say,  '  The  king  does  not  dine  to-day.' 
It  must  he  an  evil  day,  indeed,  when  a  king  of 
Naples  has  no  heart  for  his  dinner  !  but  you  your 
self  are  a  proof  that  the  king  never  dies.  You 
are  feeding  your  king,  although  you  say  he  is 
dead." 

"  To  show  you  that  I  do  not  wish  to  cherish 
hope,"  replied  Flemming,  "  I  shall  leave  Interla- 
chen  to-morrow  morning.  I  am  going  to  the 
Tyrol." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Berkley  ;  *'  there  is 
nothing  so  good  for  sorrow  as  rapid  motion  in 
the  open  air.  I  shall  go  with  you ;  though 
probably  your  conversation  will  not  be  very 
various  ;  nothing  but  Edward  and  Kunigunde." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Go  to  Berlin,  and  you  will  find  out.  How 
ever,  jesting  apart,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  cheer 
you,  and  make  you  forget  the  Dark  Ladie,  arid 
this  untoward  accident." 

u  Accident !  "  said  Flemming.  "  This  is  no 
accident,  but  God's  providence,  which  brought 
us  together,  to  punish  me  for  my  sins." 

"  O,  my  friend,"  interrupted  Berkley,  "  if 
you  see  the  ringer  of  Providence  so  distinctly  in 
every  act  of  your  life,  you  will  end  by  thinking 


A    ROMANCE.  279 

yourself  an  Apostle  and  Envoy  Extraordinary. 
I  see  nothing  so  very  uncommon  in  what  has 
happened  to  you." 

"  What  !  not  when  our  souls  are  so  akin  to 
each  other  ?  when  we  seemed  so  formed  to  be 
together,  —  to  be  one  ?  " 

"  I  have  often  observed,"  replied  Berkley 
coldly,  "that  those  who  are  of  kindred  souls 
rarely  wed  together  ;  almost  as  rarely  as  those 
who  are  akin  by  blood.  Therefore,  mad  lover, 
do  not  think  to  persuade  thyself  and  thy  scornful 
lady  that  you  have  kindred  souls ;  but  rather 
the  contrary,  —  that  you  are  much  unlike,  and 
each  wanting  in  those  qualities  which  most  mark 
and  distinguish  the  other.  Trust  me,  thy  court 
ship  will  then  be  more  prosperous.  But  good 
morning.  I  must  prepare  for  this  sudden  jour 
ney." 

On  the  following  morning,  Flemming  and  Berk 
ley  started  on  their  way  to  Innsbruck,  like  Hu- 
on  of  Bordeaux  and  Scherasmin  on  their  way 
to  Babylon.  Berkley's  self-assumed  duty  was 
to  console  his  companion  ;  a  duty  which  he  per 
formed  like  an  ancient  Spanish  Despenadora 
whose  business  was  to  attend  the  sick,  and  put 
her  elbow  into  the  stomach  of  the  dying  to  short 
en  their  aconv 


BOOK  THE  FOURTH 


'  Mortal,  they  softly  say, 

Peace  to  thy  heart ! 
We  too,  yes,  mortal, 

Have  been  as  thou  art} 
Hope-lifted,  doubt-depressed, 

rieeing  in  part, 
Tried,  troubled,  tempted, 

Sustained, —  a*  thou  art." 


BOOK    THE    FOURTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    MISERERE. 

IN  the  Orlando  Innamorato,  Malagigi,  the  nec 
romancer,  puts  all  the  company  to  sleep  by  read 
ing  to  them  from  a  book.  Some  books  have  this 
power  of  themselves  and  need  no  necromancer. 
Fearing,  Gentle  Reader,  that  mine  may  be  of  this 
kind,  I  have  provided  these  introductory  chapters 
from  time  to  time,  like  stalls  or  Misereres  in  a 
church,  with  flowery  canopies  and  poppy-heads 
over  them,  where  thou  mayest  sit  down  and  sleep 

No,  — the  figure  is  not  a  bad  one.  This  book 
does  somewhat  resemble  a  minster,  in  the  Ro 
manesque  style,  with  pinnacles,  and  flying  but 
tresses,  and  roofs, 

"  Gargoyled  with  greyhounds,  and  with  many  lions 
Made  of  f«ne  gold,  with  divers  sundry  dragons." 


284  HYPERION, 

You  step  into  its  shade  and  coolness  out  of  the 
hot  streets  of  life  ;  a  mysterious  light  streams 
through  the  painted  glass  of  the  marigold  win 
dows,  staining  the  cusps  and  crumpled  leaves  of 
the  window-shafts,  and  the  cherubs  and  holy-wa- 
ter-stoups  below.  Here  and  there  is  an  image 
of  the  Virgin  Mary ;  and  other  images,  "  in  di- 
vestures,  called  weepers,  stand  in  housings  made 
about  the  tomb  "  ;  and,  above  all,  swells  the  vast 
dome  of  heaven,  with  its  star-mouldings,  and  the 
flaming  constellations,  like  the  mosaics  in  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's.  Have  you  not  heard  funer 
al  psalms  from  the  chantry  ?  Have  you  not 
heard  the  sound  of  church-bells,  as  I  promised,  — 
mysterious  sounds  from  the  Past  and  Future,  as 
from  the  belfries  outside  the  cathedral,  —  even 
such  a  mournful,  mellow,  watery  peal  of  bells, 
as  is  heard  sometimes  at  sea,  from  cities  afar  off 
below  the  horizon  ? 

I  know  not  how  this  Romanesque,  and  at  times 
flamboyant,  style  of  architecture  may  please  the 
critics.  They  may  wish,  perhaps,  that  I  had 
omitted  some  of  my  many  ornaments,  my  ara 
besques,  and  roses,  and  fantastic  spouts,  and  Holy- 
Roods  and  Galilee-steeples.  But  would  it  then 
have  been  Romanesque  ? 


A    ROMANCE.  285 

But  perhaps,  gentle  reader,  thou  art  one  of 
those  who  think  the  days  of  romance  gone  for 
ever.  Believe  it  not !  O,  believe  it  not  !  Thou 
hast  at  this  moment  in  thy  heart  as  sweet  a 
romance  as  was  ever  written.  Thou  art  not  less 
a  woman,  because  thou  dost  not  sit  aloft  in  a 
tower,  with  a  tassel-gentle  on  thy  wrist.  Thou 
art  not  less  a  man,  because  thou  wearest  no 
hauberk,  nor  mail-sark,  and  goest  not  on  horse 
back  after  foolish  adventures.  Every  one  has  a 
romance  in  his  own  heart.  All  that  has  blessed 
or  awed  the  world  lies  there  ;  and 

"  The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 
He  must  invoke  and  question,  —  not  dead  books, 
Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotten  papers." 

Sooner  or  later,  some  passages  of  every  one's 
romance  must  be  written,  either  in  words  or 
actions.  They  will  proclaim  the  truth ;  for 
Truth  is  thought  which  has  assumed  its  appro 
priate  garments,  either  of  words  or  actions ; 
while  Falsehood  is  thought  which,  disguised  in 
words  or  actions  not  its  own,  comes  before  the 
blind  old  world,  as  Jacob  came  before  the  patri 
arch  Isaac,  clothed  in  the  goodly  raiment  of  his 
brother  Esau.  And  the  world,  like  the  patriarch, 
is  often  deceived  ;  for,  though  the  voice  is  Jacob's 


286  HYPERION, 

voice,  yet  the  hands  are  the  hands  of  Esau,  and 
the  False  takes  away  the  birthright  and  the 
blessing  from  the  True.  Hence  it  is  that  the 
world  so  often  lifts  up  its  voice  and  weeps. 

That  very  pleasing  and  fanciful  Chinese  ro 
mance,  the  Shadow  in  the  Water,  ends  with  the 
hero's  marrying  both  the  heroines.  I  hope  my 
gentle  reader  feels  curious  to  know  the  end  of 
this  romance,  which  is  a  shadow  upon  the  earth  ; 
and  see  whether  there  be  any  marriage  at  all  in 
it. 

That  is  the  very  point  I  am  now  thinking  of, 
as  I  sit  here  at  my  pleasant  chamber-window, 
and  enjoy  the  balmy  air  of  a  bright  summer 
morning,,  and  watch  the  motions  of  the  golden 
robin,  that  sits  on  its  swinging  nest  on  the  outer 
most  pendulous  branch  of  yonder  elm.  The 
broad  meadows  and  the  steel-blue  river  remind 
me  of  the  meadows  of  Unterseen  and  the  river 
Aar  ;  and  beyond  them  rise  magnificent  snow- 
white  clouds,  piled  up  like  Alps.  Thus  the 
shades  of  Washington  and  William  Tell  seem  to 
walk  together  on  these  Elysian  Fields  ;  for  it  was 
here,  that,  in  days  long  gone,  our  great  patriot 
dwelt ;  and  yonder  clouds  so  much  resemble  the 
snowy  Alps,  that  they  remind  me  irresistibly  of 


A    ROMANCE.  287 

the  Swiss.  Noble  examples  of  a  high  purpose 
and  a  fixed  will !  Do  they  not  move,  Hyperion- 
like,  on  high  ?  Were  they  not,  likewise,  sons  of 
Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

Nothing  can  be  more  lovely  than  these  summei 
mornings  ;  nor  than  the  southern  window  at  which 
I  sit  and  write,  in  this  old  mansion,  which  is  like 
an  Italian  villa.  But,  O,  this  lassitude,  —  this 
weariness,  —  when  all  around  me  is  so  bright  ! 
I  have  this  morning  a  singular  longing  for  flowers  ; 
a  wish  to  stroll  among  the  roses  and  carnations, 
and  inhale  their  breath,  as  if  it  would  revive  me. 
I  wish  I  knew  the  man  who  called  flowers  "  the 
fugitive  poetry  of  Nature."  From  this  distance, 
from  these  scholastic  shades, — from  this  leafy, 
blossoming,  and  beautiful  Cambridge,  —  I  stretch 
forth  my  hand  to  grasp  his,  as  the  hand  of  a 
poet !  —  Yes  ;  this  morning  I  would  rather  stroll 
with  him  among  the  gay  flowers,  than  sit  here  and 
write.  I  feel  so  weary  ! 

Old  men  with  their  staves,  says  the  Spanish 
poet,  are  ever  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  grave. 
But  I  am  not  old.  The  Spanish  poet  might 
have  included  the  young  also.  —  No  matter  ! 
Courage,  and  forward  !  The  romance  must  be 
finished,  and  finished  soon. 


288  HYPERION, 

O  thou  poor  authorling  !  Reach  a  little  deep 
er  into  the  human  heart  !  Touch  those  strings,  — 
touch  those  deeper  strings,  and  more  boldly,  or 
the  notes  will  die  away  like  whispers,  and  no  ear 
shall  hear  them,  save  thine  own  !  And,  to 
cheer  thy  solitary  labor,  remember  that  the 
secret  studies  of  an  author  are  the  sunken  piers 
upon  which  is  to  rest  the  bridge  of  his  fame, 
spanning  the  dark  waters  of  Oblivion.  They 
are  out  of  sight  ;  but  without  them  no  superstruc 
ture  can  stand  secure  ! 

And  now,  Reader,  since  the  sermon  is  over, 
and  we  are  still  sitting  here  in  this  Miserere,  let 
us  read  aloud  a  page  from  the  old  parchment 
manuscript  on  the  lettern  before  us  ;  let  us  sing 
it  through  these  dusky  aisles,  like  a  Gregorian 
chant,  and  startle  the  sleeping  congregation  ! 

"  I  have  read  of  the  great  river  Euripus,  which 
ebb^th  and  flow^h  seven  times  a  day,  and  with 
such  violence,  that  it  carrieth  ships  upon  it  with 
full  sail  directly  against  the  wind.  Seven  times 
in  an  hour  ebbeth  and  floweth  rash  opinion  in 
the  torrent  of  indiscreet  and  troublesome  appre 
hensions,  carrying  critic  calumny  and  squint- 
eyed  detraction  mainly  against  the  wind  of  wis 
dom  and  judgment." 

In  secula  seculorum  '     Amen  ! 


A    ROMANCE.  289 


CHAPTER  II. 

CURFEW    BELLS. 

WELCOME,  Disappointment  !  Thy  hand  to 
cold  and  hard,  but  it  is  the  hand  of  a  friend  ! 
Thy  voice  is  stern  and  harsh,  but  it  is  the  voice 
of  a  friend  !  O,  there  is  something  sublime  in 
calm  endurance,  something  sublime  in  the  reso 
lute,  fixed  purpose  of  suffering  without  complain 
ing,  which  makes  disappointment  oftentimes  bet 
ter  than  success  ! 

The  Emperor  Isaac  Angelus  made  a  treaty 
with  Saladin,  and  tried  to  purchase  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  with  gold.  Richard  Lion-heart  scorn 
ed  such  alliance,  and  sought  to  recover  it  by 
battle.  Thus  do  weak  minds  make  treaties  with 
the  passions  they  cannot  overcome,  and  try  to 
purchase  happiness  at  the  expense  of  principle. 
But  the  resolute  will  of  a  strong  man  scorns  such 
means  ;  and  struggles  nobly  with  his  foe,  to 
achieve  great  deeds.  Therefore,  whosoever  thou 
19 


290  HYPERION, 

art  that  sufferest,  try  not  to  dissipate  thy  sorrow 
by  the  breath  of  the  world,  nor  drown  its  voice 
in  thoughtless  merriment.  It  is  a  treacherous 
peace  that  is  purchased  by  indulgence.  Rather 
take  this  sorrow  to  thy  heart,  and  make  it  a  part 
of  thee,  and  it  shall  nourish  thee  till  thou  art 
strong  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  mind  are  like  those  of  the 
body.  In  the  morning  of  life,  they  all  lie  behind 
us  ;  at  noon,  we  trample  them  under  foot  ;  and 
in  the  evening,  they  stretch  long,  broad,  and  deep 
ening  before  us.  Are  not,  then,  the  sorrows 
of  childhood  as  dark  as  those  of  age  ?  Are  not 
the  morning  shadows  of  life  as  deep  and  broad  as 
those  of  its  evening  ?  Yes  ;  but  morning  shadows 
soon  fade  away,  while  those  of  evening  reach 
forward  into  the  night  and  mingle  with  the  coming 
darkness.  Man  is  begotten-  in  delight  and  born 
in  pain  ;  and  in  these  are  the  rapture  and  labor 
of  his  life  foreshadowed  from  the  beginning. 
But  the  life  of  man  upon  this  fair  earth  is  made  up, 
for  the  most  part,  of  little  pains  and  little  pleasures. 
The  great  wonder-flowers  bloom  but  once  in  a 
lifetime. 

A  week  had  already  elapsed  since  the  events 
recorded  in  the  last  chapter.  Paul  Flemmmg 


A    ROMANCE.  291 

went  his  way,  a  melancholy  man,  "  drinking  the 
sweet  wormwood  of  his  sorrow."  He  did  not 
rail  at  Providence  and  call  it  fate,  but  suffered 
and  was  silent.  It  is  a  beautiful  trait  in  the 
lover's  character,  that  he  thinks  no  evil  of  the 
object  loved.  What  he  suffered  was  no  swift 
storm  of  feeling,  that  passes  away  with  a  noise, 
and  leaves  the  heart  clearer  ;  but  a  dark  phantom 
had  risen  up  in  the  clear  night,  and,  like  that  of 
Adarnastor,  hid  the  stars  ;  and  if  it  ever  vanished 
away  for  a  season,  still  the  deep  sound  of  the 
moaning  main  would  be  heard  afar,  through  many 
a  dark  and  lonely  hour.  And  thus  he  journeyed 
on,  wrapped  in  desponding  gloom,  and  mainly 
heedless  of  all  things  around  him.  His  mind  was 
distempered.  That  one  face  was  always  before 
him  ;  that  one  voice  forever  saying  :  — 

"  You  are  not  the  Magician." 

Painful,  indeed,  it  is  to  be  misunderstood  and 
undervalued  by  those  we  love.  But  this,  too,  in 
our  life,  must  we  learn  to  bear  without  a  murmur  ; 
for  it  is  a  tale  often  repeated. 

There  are  persons  in  this  world  to  whom  all 
local  associations  are  naught.  The  genius  of  the 
place  speaks  not  to  them.  Even  on  battle-fields, 
where  the  voice  of  this  genius  is  loudest,  they 


292  HYPERION, 

hear  only  the  sound  of  their  own  voices  ;  they 
meet  there  only  their  own  dull  and  pedantic 
thoughts,  as  the  old  grammarian  Brunetto  Latini 
met  on  the  plain  of  Roncesvalles  a  poor  student 
riding  on  a  bay  mule.  This  was  not  always  the 
case  with  Paul  Flemming,  but  it  had  become  so 
now.  He  felt  no  interest  in  the  scenery  around 
him.  He  hardly  looked  at  it.  Even  the  difficult 
mountain-passes,  where,  from  his  rocky  eyrie  the 
eagle-eyed  Tyrolese  peasant  had  watched  his  foe, 
and  the  roaring,  turbid  torrent  underneath,  which 
had  swallowed  up  the  bloody  corse,  that  fell  from 
the  rocks  like  a  crushed  worm,  awakened  no 
lively  emotion  in  his  breast.  All  around  him 
seemed  dreamy  and  vague  ;  all  within  dim,  as  in  a 
sun's  eclipse.  As  the  moon,  whether  visible  or 
invisible,  has  power  over  the  tides  of  the  ocean, 
so  the  face  of  that  lady,  whether  present  or  absent, 
had  power  over  the  tides  of  his  soul ;  both  by  day 
and  night,  both  waking  and  sleeping.  In  every 
pale  face  and  dark  eye  he  saw  a  resemblance  to 
her  ;  and  what  the  day  denied  him  in  reality  the 
night  gave  him  in  dreams. 

"  This  is  a  strange,  fantastic  world,"  said 
Berkley,  after  a  very  long  silence,  during  which 
the  two  travellers  had  been  sitting  each  in  his 


A     ROMANCE.  2J3 

corner  of  the  travelling  carriage,  wrapped  in  his 
own  reflections.  "  A  very  strange,  faatastic 
world  ;  where  each  one  pursues  his  own  golden 
bubble,  and  laughs  at  his  neighbour  for  doing  the 
same.  I  have  been  thinking  how  a  moral  Lin 
naeus  would  classify  our  race.  I  think  he  would 
divide  it,  —  not  as  Lord  Byron  did,  into  two  great 
classes,  the  bores  and  those  who  are  bored,  —  but 
into  three,  namely  :  Happy  Men,  Lucky  Dogs, 
and  Miserable  Wretches.  This  is  more  true 
and  philosophical,  though  perhaps  not  quite  so 
comprehensive.  He  is  the  Happy  Man,  who, 
blessed  with  modest  ease,  a  wife  and  children, 
sits  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  his  family,  and 
knows  no  other  ambition  than  that  of  making 
those  around  him  happy.  But  the  Lucky  Dog 
is  he,  who,  free  from  all  domestic  cares,  saunters 
up  and  down  his  room,  in  morning  gown  and 
slippers  ;  drums  on  the  window,  of  a  rainy  day  ; 
and,  as  he  stirs  his  evening  fire,  snaps  his  fingers 
at  the  world,  and  says,  '  I  have  no  wife  nor  chil 
dren,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for.'  I  had  a 
friend  who  is  now  no  more.  He  was  taken 

away  in  the  bloom  of  life,  by  a  very  rapid 

widow.  He  was  by  birth  and  by  profession  a 
Deau,  —  born  with  a  quizzing-glass  and  a  cane. 


294  HYPERION, 

Cock  of  the  walk,  he  flapped  his  wings,  and  crow 
ed  among  the  feathered  tribe.  But,  alas  !  a  fair, 
white  partlet  has  torn  his  crest  out,  and  he  shall 
crow  no  more.  In  the  evening  he  rocks  the 
cradle,  and  gets  up  in  the  night  when  the  child 
cries.  Like  a  Goth  of  the  Dark  Ages,  he  con 
sults  his  wife  on  all  mighty  matters,  and  looks 
upon  her  as  a  being  of  more  than  human  good 
ness  and  wisdom.  In  short,  the  women  all  say 
he  is  a  very  domestic  man,  and  makes  a  good 
husband  ;  which,  under  the  rose,  is  only  a  more 
polite  way  of  saying  he  is  henpecked.  He 
is  a  Happy  Man.  I  have  another  dear  friend, 
who  is  a  sexagenary  bachelor.  He  has  one  of 
those  well-oiled  dispositions  which  turn  upon  the 
hinges  of  the  world  without  creaking.  The  hey 
day  of  life  is  over  with  him  ;  but  his  old  age  is 
sunny  and  chirping ;  and  a  merry  heart  still 
nestles  in  his  tottering  frame,  like  a  swallow  that 
builds  in  a  tumble-down  chimney.  He  is  a  pro 
fessed  Squire  of  Dames.  The  rustle  of  a  silk 
gown  is  music  to  his  ears,  and  his  imagination  is 
continually  lantern-led  by  some  will-with-a-vvisp  in 
the  shape  of  a  lady's  stomacher.  In  his  devotion 
to  the  fair  sex,  —  the  muslin,  as  he  calls  it,  — 
he  is  the  gentle  flower  of  chivalry.  It  is  amusing 


A    ROMANCE.  295 

to  see  how  quick  he  strikes  Into  the  scent  of  a 
lady's  handkerchief.  When  once  fairly  in  pursuit, 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  throwing  him  out.  His 
heart  looks  out  at  his  eye  ;  and  his  inward  delight 
tingles  down  to  the  tail  of  his  coat.  He  loves  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine  of  a  smile  ;  when  he  can 
breathe  the  sweet  atmosphere  of  kid  gloves  and 
cambric  handkerchiefs,  his  soul  is  in  its  element  ; 
and  his  supreme  delight  is  to  pass  the  morning,  to 
use  his  own  quaint  language,  '  in  making  dodging 
calls,  and  wriggling  round  among  the  ladies  ! ' 
He  is  a  Lucky  Dog." 

"And  as  a  specimen  of  the  class  of  Miserable 
Wretches,  I  suppose  you  will  take  me,"  said 
Flemming,  making  an  effort  to  enter  into  his 
friend's  humor.  "  Certainly  I  am  wretched 
enough.  You  may  make  me  the  stuffed  bear, — 
the  specimen  of  this  class." 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Berkley  ;  "  you  are 
not  reduced  so  low.  He  only  is  utterly  wretched, 
who  is  the  slave  of  his  own  passions,  or  those  of 
others.  This,  I  trust,  will  never  be  your  condi 
tion.  Wrhy  so  wan  and  pale,  fond  lover  ?  Do 
you  remember  Sir  John  Suckling's  song  ? 

'  Why  so  wan  and  pale,  fond  lover  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 


296 


HYPERION, 


Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  if  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do  't .' 

Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 

'Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !  this  cannot  move, 

This  cannot  take  her ! 
If  of  herself  she  do  not  love, 
Nothing  will  make  her ! 
The  devil  take  her  ! ' 

How  do  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  To  you  I  say  quit,  quit  for  shame  !  "  replied 
Flemming.  "  Why  quote  the  songs  of  that  witty 
and  licentious  age  ?  Have  you  no  better  conso 
lation  to  offer  me  ?  How  many,  many  times 
must  I  tell  you,  that  I  bear  the  lady  no  ill-will  ? 
I  do  not  blame  her  for  not  loving  me.  I  desire 
her  happiness,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  my  own." 
'  That  is  generous  in  you,  and  deserves  a 
better  fate.  But  you  are  so  figurative  in  all  you 
say,  that  a  stranger  would  think  you  had  no  real 
feeling,  and  only  fancied  yourself  in  love." 

"  Expression  of  feeling  is  different  with  differ 
ent    minds.     It   is   not   always    simple.     Some 


A    ROMANCE.  297 

minds,  when  excited,  naturally  speak  in  figures 
and  similitudes.  They  do  not  on  that  account 
feel  less  deeply.  This  is  obvious  in  our  most 
common  modes  of  speech.  It  depends  upon  the 
individual." 

"  Kyrie  Eleyson  !  " 

"  Well,  abuse  my  figures  of  speech  as  much 
as  you  please.  What  I  insist  upon  is,  that 
you  shall  not  abuse  the  lady.  When  did  you 
ever  hear  me  breathe  n  whisper  against  her? " 

"  Oho  !  Now  you  speak  like  Launce  to  his 
dog  !  " 

Their  conversation,  which  had  begun  so  mer 
rily,  was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  rattling 
peal  of  thunder,  that  announced  a  near-approach 
ing  storm.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
whole  heaven  black  with  lov/,  trailing  clouds. 
Still  blacker  the  storm  came  sailing  up  majestical 
ly  from  the  southwest,  with  almost  unbroken  vol 
leys  of  distant  thunder.  The  wind  seemed  to  be 
storming  a  cloud  redoubt ;  and  marched  onward 
with  dust,  and  the  green  banners  of  tho  trees  flap 
ping  in  the  air,  and  heavy  cannonading,  and  occa 
sionally  an  explosion,  like  the  blowing  up  of  a 
powder-wagon.  Mingled  with  this  was  the  sous  i 
of  thunder-bells  from  a  village  not  far  off.  T.\\ 


298  HYPERION, 

were  all  ringing  dolefully  to  ward  off  the  thunder 
bolt.  At  the  entrance  of  the  village  stood  a  large 
wooden  crucifix,  around  which  was  a  crowd  of 
priests  and  peasants,  kneeling  in  the  wet  grass,  by 
the  roadside,  with  their  hands  and  eyes  lifted  to 
heaven,  and  praying  for  rain.  Their  prayer  was 
soon  answered. 

The  travellers  drove  on  with  the  driving  wind 
and  rain.  They  had  come  from  Landeck,  and 
hoped  to  reach  Innsbruck  before  midnight.  Night 
closed  in,  and  Flemrning  fell  asleep  with  the  loud 
storm  overhead,  and  at  his  feet  the  roaring  Inn,  a 
mountain  torrent  leaping  onward  as  wild  and  rest 
less  as  when  it  first  sprang  from  its  cradle  in  the 
solitudes  of  Engaddin  ;  meet  emblem  of  himself, 
thus  rushing  through  the  night.  His  slumber  was 
long,  but  broken  ;  and  at  length  he  awoke  in  ter 
ror  ;  for  he  heard  a  voice  pronounce  in  his  eai 
distinctly  these  words  :  — 

"  They  have  brought  the  dead  body." 
They  were  driving  by  a  churchyard  at  the  en 
trance  of  a  town  ;  and  among  the  tombs  a  dim 
lamp  was  burning  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin. 
It  had  a  most  unearthly  appearance.  Flemming 
almost  feared  to  see  the  congregation  of  the  dead 
go  into  the  church  and  sing  their  midnight  mass. 


A    ROMANCE.  299 

He  spoke  to  Berkley,  but  received  no  answer  . 
he  was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

"  Then  it  was  only  a  dream,"  said  he  to  him 
self;  "yet  how  distinct  the  voice  was!  O,  if 
we  had  spiritual  organs,  to  see  and  hear  things 
now  invisible  and  inaudible  to  us,  we  should  be 
hold  the  whole  air  filled  with  the  departing  souls 
of  that  vast  multitude  which  every  moment  dies, 
—  should  behold  them  streaming  up  like  thin  va 
pors  heavenward,  and  hear  the  startling  blast  of 
the  archangel's  trump  sounding  incessant  through 
the  universe  and  proclaiming  the  awful  judgment- 
day  !  Truly,  the  soul  departs  not  alone  on  its  last 
journey,  but  spirits  of  its  kind  attend  it,  when  not 
ministering  angels  ;  and  they  go  in  families  to  the 
unknown  land  !  Neither  in  life  nor  in  death  are 
we  alone." 

He  slept  again  at  intervals  ;  and  at  length, 
though  long  after  midnight,  reached  Innsbruck  be 
tween  sleeping  and  waking  ;  his  mind  filled  with 
dim  recollections  of  the  unspeakably  dismal  night 
journey  ;  —  the  climbing  of  hills,  and  plunging  in 
to  dark  ravines  ;  the  momentary  rattling  of  the 
wheels  over  paved  streets  of  towns,  and  the  suc 
ceeding  hollow  rolling  and  tramping  on  the  wet 
earth  ;  the  blackness  of  the  night ;  the  thunder 


300  HYPERION, 


and  lightning  and  rain  ;  the  roar  of  waters,  leap 
ing  through  deep  chasms  by  the  roadside ;  and 
the  wind  through  the  mountain-passes,  sounding 
loud  and  long,  like  the  inextinguishable  laughter 
of  the  gods. 

The  travellers  on  the  morrow  lingered  not  long 
in  Innsbruck.      They   did  not  fail,  however,  to 
visit  the   tomb  of  Maximilian  in  the  Franciscan 
Church  of  the   Holy  Cross,  and  gaze  with  some 
admiration  upon   the  twenty-eight  gigantic  bronze 
statues  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  and  King  Arthur, 
and  Ernest  the  Iron-man,   and  Frederick  of  the 
Empty   Pockets,   kings   and  heroes,  and  others, 
which  stand  leaning  on  their  swords   between  the 
columns  of  the  church,  as  if  guarding  the  tomb 
of  the  dead.      These  statues  reminded  Flemming 
of  the  bronze  giants   which  strike  the   hours  on 
the  belfry  of  San  Basso,  in  Venice,  and  of  the 
flail-armed  monsters  that  guarded  the  gateway  of 
Angulaffer's    castle    in    Oberon.       After   gazing 
awhile  at  these  motionless   sentinels,  they  went 
forth,   and   strolled   through   the   public  gardens, 
with  the  jagged  mountains  right  over  their  heads, 
and  all   around  them  tall,  melancholy  pines,  like 
Tyrolese  peasants,  with  shaggy  hair  ;  and  at  their 
feet  the  mad   torrent  of  the  Inn,  sweeping  with 


A    ROMANCE.  30J 

turbid  waves  through  the  midst  of  the  town.  In 
the  afternoon,  they  drove  on  towards  Salzburg, 
through  the  magnificent  mountain-passes  of  Wai- 
dering  and  Unken. 


302  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  III. 

SHADOWS    ON    THE    WALL. 

ON  the  following  morning,  Flemming  awoke  in 
a  chamber  of  the  Golden  Ship  at  Salzburg,  just 
as  the  clock  in  the  Dome-church  opposite  was 
striking  ten.  The  window-shutters  were  closed, 
and  the  room  was  nearly  dark.  He  was  lying 
with  his  hands  crossed  upon  his  breast,  and  his 
eyes  looking  up  at  the  white  curtains  overhead. 
He  thought  them  the  white  marble  canopy  of  a 
tomb,  and  himself  the  marble  statue  lying  beneath 
When  the  clock  ceased  striking,  the  eight-and- 
twenty  gigantic  bronze  statues  from  the  Church 
of  Holy  Rood  in  Innsbruck  stalked  into  the 
chamber,  and  arranged  themselves  along  the  walls, 
which  spread  into  dimly  lighted  aisles  and  arches. 
On  the  painted  windows  he  saw  Interlachen,  with 
its  Franciscan  cloister,  and  the  Square  Tower  of 
the  ruins.  In  a  pendent,  overhead,  stood  the 


A    ROMANCE.  303 

German  mechanic,  as  Saint  Vitus  ;  and  on  a  lavato 
rv,  or  basin  of  holy-water,  below,  sat  a  cherub, 
with  the  form  and  features  of  Berkley.  Then 
the  organ-pipes  began  to  blow,  and  he  heard  the 
voices  of  an  invisible  choir  chanting.  And  anon 
the  gilded  gates  in  the  bronze  screen  before  the 
chancel  opened,  and  a  bridal  procession  passed 
through.  The  bride  was  clothed  in  the  garb  of 
tne  Middle  Ages  ;  and  held  a  book  in  her  hand, 
with  velvet  covers,  and  golden  clasps.  It  was 
Mary  Ashburton.  She  looked  at  him,  as  she 
passed.  Her  face  was  pale  ;  and  there  were 
tears  in  her  sweet  eyes.  Then  the  gates  closed 
again  ;  and  one  of  the  oaken  poppy-heads  over  a 
carved  stall,  in  the  shape  of  an  owl,  flapped  its 
broad  wings,  and  hooted,  "  To-whit  !  to-whoo  !  " 
Then  the  whole  scene  changed  ;  and  he  thought 
himself  a  rnonk's-head  on  a  gutter-spout ;  and  it 
rained  dismally  ;  and  Berkley  was  standing  un 
derneath  with  an  umbrella,  laughing  ! 

In  other  words,  Flemming  was  in  a  raging  fe 
ver,  and  delirious.  He  remained  in  this  state  for 
a  week.  The  first  thing  he  was  conscious  of  was 
nearing  the  doctor  say  to  Berkley  :  — 

"  The  crisis  is  passed.  I  now  consider  him  out 
of  danger." 


304  HYPERION, 

He  then  fell  into  a  sweet  sleep  ;  the  wild  fever 
had  swept  away  like  an  angry,  red  cloud,  and  the 
refreshing  summer  rain  began  to  fall  like  dew  up 
on  the  parched  earth.  Still  another  week,  and 
Flemrning  was  "  sitting  clothed,  and  in  his  right 
mind."  Berkley  had  been  reading  to  him  ;  and 
still  held  the  book  in  his  hand,  with  his  fore-finger 
between  the  leaves.  It  was  a  volume  of  Hoff 
mann's  writings. 

"  How  very  strange  it  is,"  said  he,  "  that  you 
can  hardly  open  the  biography  of  any  German  au 
thor,  but  you  will  find  it  begin  with  an  account  of 
his  grandfather  !  It  will  tell  you  how  the  vener 
able  old  man  walked  up  and  down  the  garden 
among  the  gay  flowers,  wrapped  in  his  morning 
gown,  which  is  likewise  covered  with  flowers,  and 
perhaps  wearing  on  his  head  a  little  velvet  cap. 
Or  you  will  find  him  sitting  by  the  chimney-cor 
ner  in  the  great  chair,  smoking  his  ancestral  pipe, 
with  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  eyes  like  birdnests  un 
der  the  eaves  of  a  house,  and  a  mouth  like  a  Nu 
remberg  nutcracker's.  The  future  poet  climbs 
upon  the  old  man's  knees.  His  genius  is  not  rec 
ognized  yet.  He  is  thought  for  the  most  part  a 
dull  boy.  His  father  is  an  austere  man,  or  per 
haps  dead.  But  the  mother  is  still  there,  a  sick- 


A    ROMANCE.  305 

ly,  saint-like  woman,  with  knitting-work  ;  and  an 
elder  sister,  who  has  already  been  in  love,  ana 
wears  rings  on  her  ringers  ;  — 

*  Dc.ath's  heads,  and  such  mementoes, 
Her  grandmother  and  worm-eaten  aunts  left  to  bet, 
To  tell  her  what  her  beauty  must  arrive  at.'  " 

"  Bui  this  is  not  the  case  with  the  life  of  Hoff 
mann,  if  I  recollect  right." 

"  No,  not  precisely.  Instead  of  the  grand 
father,  we  have  the  grandmother,  a  stately  dame, 
who  has  long  since  shaken  hands  with  the  vanities 
of  life.  The  mother,  separated  from  her  hus 
band,  is  sick  in  mind  and  body,  and  flits  to  and 
fro  like  a  shadow.  Then  there  is  an  affectionate 
maiden  aunt  ;  and  an  uncle,  a  retired  judge,  the 
terror  of  little  boys,  —  the  Giant  Despair  of  this 
Doubting  Castle  in  Konigsberg  ;  and  occasion 
ally  the  benign  countenance  of  a  venerable  grand- 
uncle,  whom  Lamotte  Fouqu£  called  a  hero  of 
the  olden  time  in  morning  gown  and  slippers, 
looks  in  at  the  door  and  smiles.  In  the  upper 
story  of  the  same  house  lived  a  poor  boy  with 
his  mother,  who  was  so  far  crazed  as  to  believe 
herself  to  be  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  her  son  the 
Saviour  of  the  world.  Wild  fancies,  likewise, 
were  to  sweep  through  the  brain  of  that  child. 
20 


306  HYPERION, 

He  was  to  meet  Hoffmann  elsewhere  and  be  bis 
friend  in  after  years,  though  as  yet  they  knew 
nothing  of  each  other.  This  was  Werner,  who 
has  made  some  noise  in  German  literature  as  the 
author  of  many  wild  Destiny-Dramas." 

"  Hoffmann  died,  I  believe,  in  Berlin." 

"  Yes.  He  left  Konigsberg  at  twenty  years 
of  age,  and  passed  the  next  eight  years  of  his 
life  in  the  Prussian- Polish  provinces,  where  he 
held  some  petty  office  under  government,  and 
took  to  himself  many  bad  habits  and  a  Polish 
wife.  After  this  he  was  Music-Director  at  va 
rious  German  theatres,  and  led  a  wandering, 
wretched  life  for  ten  years.  He  then  went  to 
Berlin'  as  Clerk  of  the  Exchange,  and  there  re 
mained  till  his  death,  which  took  place  some  sev 
en  or  eight  years  afterward." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  Berlin  during  his  lifetime,  and  saw 
him  frequently.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time. 
It  was  at  one  of  the  JEsthetic  Teas  given  by  a 
literary  lady  unter  den  Linden,  where  the  lions 
were  fed  with  convenient  food,  from  tea  and 
bread  and  butter  up  to  oysters  and  Rhine-wine. 
During  the  evening,  my  attention  was  arrested  by 
the  entrance  of  a  strange  little  figure,  with  a  wild 


A    ROMANCE.  307 

head  of  brown  hair.  His  eyes  were  bright  gray  ; 
and  his  thin  lips  closely  pressed  together  with  an 
expression  of  not  unpleasing  irony.  This  strange- 
looking  personage  began  to  bow  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  with  quick,  nervous,  hinge-like  motions, 
much  resembling  those  of  a  marionnette.  He  had 
a  hoarse  voice,  and  such  a  rapid  utterance,  that, 
although  I  understand  German  well  enough  for 
ordinary  purposes,  I  could  not  make  out  one 
half  he  said.  Ere  long  he  had  seated  himself  at 
the  piano-forte,  and  was  improvising  such  wild, 
sweet  fancies,  that  the  music  of  one's  dreams  is 
not  more  sweet  and  wild.  Then  suddenly  some 
painful  thought  seemed  to  pass  over  his  mind,  as 
if  he  imagined  that  he  was  there  to  amuse  the 
company.  He  rose  from  the  piano-forte,  and 
seated  himself  in  another  part  of  the  room  ;  where 
he  began  to  make  grimaces,  and  talk  loud  while 
others  were  singing.  Finally  he  disappeared  like 
a  hobgoblin,  laughing,  '  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! '  I  ask 
ed  a  person  beside  me  who  this  strange  being 
was.  '  That  was  Hoffmann,'  was  the  answer. 
'  The  Devil  ! '  said  I.  '  Yes,'  continued  my  in 
formant  ;  '  and  if  you  should  follow  him  now,  you 
would  see  him  plunge  into  an  obscure  and  unfre 
quented  wine-cellar,  and  there,  amid  boon  com- 


308  HYPERION, 

panions,  with  wine  and  tobacco-smoke,  and  quirks 
and  quibbles,  and  quaint,  witty  sayings,  turn  the 
dim  night  into  glorious  day.' ' 

"  What  a  strange  being  !  " 

"  I  once  saw  him  at  one  of  his  night-carouses. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  glory,  at  the  head  of  the  ta 
ble  ;  not  stupidly  drunk,  but  warmed  with  wine, 
which  made  him  madly  eloquent,  as  the  Devil's 
Elixir  did  the  monk  Medardus.  There,  in  the 
full  tide  of  witty  discourse,  or,  if  silent,  his  gray 
hawk-eye  flashing  from  beneath  his  matted  hair, 
and  taking  note  of  all  that  was  grotesque  in  the 
company  round  him,  sat  this  unfortunate  genius, 
till  the  day  began  to  dawn.  Then  he  found  his 
way  homeward,  having,  like  the  souls  of  the  envi 
ous  in  Purgatory,  his  eyelids  sewed  together  with 
iron  wire;  —  though  his  was  from  champagne 
bottles.  At  such  hours  he  wrote  his  wild,  fantas 
tic  tales.  To  his  excited  fancy  every  thing  as 
sumed  a  spectral  look.  The  shadows  of  familiar 
things  about  him  stalked  like  ghosts  through  the 
haunted  chambers  of  his  soul  ;  and  the  old  por 
traits  on  the  walls  winked  at  him,  and  seemed  step 
ping  down  from  their  frames  ;  till,  aghast  at  the 
spectral  throng  about  him,  he  would  call  his  wife 
from  her  bed,  to  sit  by  him  while  he  wrote." 


A    ROMANCE.  309 

"  No  wonder  he  died  in  the  prime  of  life  !  " 
"  No.  The  only  wonder  is,  that  he  could 
have  followed  this  course  of  life  for  six  years. 
I  am  astonished  that  it  did  not  kill  him  sooner." 
"  But  death  came  at  last  in  an  appalling  shape." 
"  Yes  ;  his  forty-sixth  birthday  found  him  sit 
ting  at  home  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  friends 
around  him.  But  the  rare  old  wine  —  he  al 
ways  drank  the  best — touched  not  the  sick 
man's  lips  that  night.  His  wonted  humor  was 
gone.  Of  all  his  'jibes,  his  gambols,  his  songs, 
his  flashes  of  merriment,  that  were  wont  to  set  the 
table  on  a  roar,  not  one  now,  to.  mock  his  own 
grinning! — quite  chap-fallen.'  The  conversa 
tion  was  of  death  and  the  grave.  And  when  one 
of  his  friends  said  that  life  was  not  the  highest 
good,  Hoffmann  interrupted  him,  exclaiming,  with 
a  startling  earnestness, — 'No,  no!  Life,  life, 
only  life  !  on  any  condition  whatsoever  !  '  Five 
months  after  this  he  had  ceased  to  suffer,  because 
he  had  ceased  to  live.  He  died  piecemeal. 
His  feet  and  hands,  his  legs  and  arms,  gradually, 
and  in  succession,  became  motionless,  dead.  But 
his  spirit  was  not  dead,  nor  motionless  ;  and, 
through  the  solitary  day  or  sleepless  night,  lying 
in  his  bed,  he  dictated  to  an  amanuensis  his 


310  HYPERION, 

last  stories.  Strange  stories,  indeed,  were  they 
for  a  dying  man  to  write  !  Yet  such  delight  did 
he  take  in  dictating  them,  that  he  said  to  his 
friend  Hitzig,  that,  upon  the  whole,  he  was  willing 
to  give  up  for  ever  the  use  of  his  hands,  if  he 
could  but  preserve  the  power  of  writing  by  dicta 
tion.  Such  was  his  love  of  life,  —  of  what  he 
called  the  sweet  habitude  of  being  !  " 

"  Was  it  not  he,  who  in  his  last  hours  express 
ed  such  a  longing  to  behold  the  green  fields  once 
more,  and  exclaimed,  — l  Heaven  '  it  is  already 
summer,  and  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  single  green 
tree '  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  that  was  Hoffmann.  Soon  afterwards 
he  died.  The  closing  scene  was  striking.  He 
gradually  lost  all  sensation,  though  his  mind  re 
mained  vigorous.  Feeling  no  more  pain,  he  said 
to  his  physician,  — '  It  will  soon  be  over  now.  1 
feel  no  more  pain.'  He  thought  himself  well 
again  ;  but  the  physician  knew  that  he  was  dying, 
and  said,  — '  Yes,  it  will  soon  be  over  ! '  The 
next  morning  he  called  his  wife  to  his  bedside,  and 
begged  her  to  fold  his  motionless  hands  together. 
Then,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  she  heard 
him  say,  '  We  must,  then,  think  of  God,  also  !  ' 
More  sorrowful  words  than  these  have  seldom 


A    ROMANCE.  811 

fallen  from  the  lips  of  man.  Shortly  afterwards 
the  flame  of  life  glared  up  within  him  ;  he  said  he 
was  well  again ;  that  in  the  evening  he  should  go 
on  with  the  story  he  was  writing  ;  and  wished  that 
the  last  sentence  might  be  read  over  to  him. 
Shortly  after  this  they  turned  his  face  to  the  wall, 
and  he  died." 

"  And  thus  passed  to  its  account  a  human  soul, 
after  much  self-inflicted  suffering.  Let  us  tread 
lightly  upon  the  poet's  ashes.  For  my  part,  I 
confess  that  I  have  not  the  heart  to  take  him 
from  the  general  crowd  of  erring,  sinful  men,  and 
judge  him  harshly.  The  little  I  have  seen  of  the 
world,  and  know  of  the  history  of  mankind, 
teaches  me  to  look  upon  the  errors  of  others  in 
sorrow,  not  in  anger.  When  I  take  the  history 
of  one  poor  heart  that  has  sinned  and  suffered, 
and  represent  to  myself  the  struggles  and  tempta 
tions  it  has  passed,  —  the  brief  pulsations  of  joy, 
—  the  feverish  inquietude  of  hope  and  fear,  —  the 
tears  of  regret,  —  the  feebleness  of  purpose,  — the 
pressure  of  want,  —  the  desertion  of  friends,  — 
the  scorn  of  a  world  that  has  little  charity,  —  the 
desolation  of  the  soul's  sanctuary,  —  and  threat 
ening  voices  within,  —  health  gone,  —  happiness 
gone,  —  even  hope,  that  stays  longest  with  us, 


312  HYPERION, 

gone,  —  I  have  little  heart  for  aught  else  than 
thankfulness  that  it  is  not  so  with  me,  and  would 
fain  leave  the  erring  soul  of  my  fellow-man  with 
Him  from  whose  hands  it  came, 

'  Even  as  a  little  girl, 
Weeping  and  laughing  in  her  childish  sport.'  " 

"  You  are  right.  And  it  is  worth  a  student's 
while  to  observe  calmly  how  tobacco,  wine,  and 
midnight  did  their  work  like  fiends  upon  the  deli 
cate  frame  of  Hoffmann  ;  and  no  less  thoroughly 
upon  his  delicate  mind.  He  who  drinks  beer 
thinks  beer ;  and  he  who  drinks  wine  thinks 
wine  ;  and  he  who  drinks  midnight  thinks  mid 
night.  He  was  a  man  of  rare  intellect.  He  was 
endowed  with  racy  humor,  and  sarcastic  wit,  and 
a  glorious  imagination.  But  the  fire  of  his  genius 
burned  not  peacefully  and  with  a  steady  flame 
upon  the  hearth  of  his  home.  It  was  a  glaring 
and  irregular  flame  ;  —  for  the  branches  that  he 
fed  it  with  were  not  branches  from  the  Tree  of 
Life,  — but  from  another  tree  that  grew  in  Para 
dise, —  and  they  were  wet  with  the  unhealthy 
dews  of  night,  and  more  unhealthy  wine  ;  and 
thus,  amid  smoke  and  ashes,  the  fire  burned  fit 
fully,  and  went  out  with  a  glare  which  leaves  the 
beholder  blind." 


A    ROMANCE. 


313 


*«  This  fire  within  him  was  a  Meleager's  fire 
brand  ;  and,  when  it  burned  out,  he  died.     And, 
as  you  say,  marks  of  all  this  are  clearly  visible  in 
Hoffmann's  writings.     Indeed,   when  I  read  his 
strange  fancies,  it  is  with  me  as  when  in  the  sum 
mer  night  I  hear  the  rising  wind  among  the  trees, 
and  the  branches  bow,  and  beckon  with  their  long 
fingers,    and  voices    go    gibbering    and   mocking 
through  the  air.     A  feeling  of  awe  and  mysterious 
dread  comes  over  me.     I  wish  to  hear  the  sound 
of  living  voice  or  footstep  near  me,— to  see  a 
friendly  and  familiar  face.     In  truth,  if  it  be  late 
at  night,  the  reader  as  well  as  the  writer  of  these 
unearthly  fancies  would  fain  have  a  patient,  meek 
eyed  wife,  with  her  knitting-work,  at  his  elbow." 
Berkley  smiled  ;  but  Flemming  continued  with 
out  noticing  the  smile,  though  he  knew  what  was 
passing  in  the  mind  of  his  friend  :  — 

«  The  life  and  writings  of  this  singular  being 
interest  me  in  a  high  degree.  Sometimes  we  may 
learn  more  from  a  man's  errors  than  from  his 
virtues.  Moreover,  from  the  common  sympa 
thies  of  our  nature,  souls  that  have  struggled  and 
suffered  are  dear  to  me.  Willingly  do  I  recog 
nize  their  brotherhood.  Scars  upon  their  fore 
heads  do  not  so  deform  them  that  they  cease  to 


HYPERION, 

interest.     They  are   always    signs    of  struggle  ; 
though,    alas!    too   often,    likewise,    of    defeat. 
Seasons  of  unhealthy,  dreamy,  vague  delight  are 
followed  by  seasons  of  weariness  and  darkness. 
Where  are  then  the  bright  fancies,  that,  amid  the 
great  stillness  of  the  night,  arise  like  stars  in   the 
firmament  of  our  souls  ?     The  morning  dawns, 
the  light  of  common  day  shines  in  upon  us,  and 
the  heavens  are  without  a  star  !     From  the  lives 
of  such  men  we  learn  that  mere  pleasant  sensa 
tions   are   not  happiness  ;  that  sensual  pleasures 
are   to  be  drunk  sparingly,  and,  as  it  were,  from 
the  palm  of  the  hand  ;  and  that  those  who 'bow 
down  upon  their  knees  to  drink  of  these  bright 
streams  that  water  life  are  not  chosen  of  God 

either  to  overthrow  or  to  overcome  !  " 

"  I  think  you  are  very  lenient  in  your  judgment. 

This  is  not  the   usual  defect  of  critics.     Like 

Shakspeare's    Samphire-gatherer,    they   have   a 

dreadful  trade  !  and,  to  make  the  simile  complete, 

they  ought  to  hang  for  it  !  " 

"  Me  thinks,  it  would  be  hard  to  hang  a  man  for 

the  sake  of  a  simile.     But  now  go  on  with  the 

Phantasy-Pieces  in  Callot's  manner." 
"  By  the  way,  who  was  this  Callot  ?  " 
'*  He  was  a  Loraine  painter,  of  the  seventeenth 


A    ROMANCE.  315 

century,  celebrated  for  his  wild  and  grotesque 
conceptions.  These  sketches  of  HoiFmann  are 
imitations  of  his  style." 

"  And  which  of  them  shall  I  read  to  you  next  ? 
The  Ritter  Gliick  ;  or  the  Musical  Sufferings  of 
John  Kreisler  ;  or  that  exquisite  story  of  the 
Golden  Jar,  wherein  is  depicted  the  life  of  Poesy 
in  this  commonplace  world  of  ours  ?  " 

"  Read  the  shortest.  Read  Kreisler.  That 
will  amuse  me.  It  is  a  picture  of  his  own  suffer 
ings  at  the  JEslhetic  Teas  in  Berlin,  supposed  to 
be  written  in  pencil  on  the  blank  leaves  of  a 
music-book." 

Thereupon  Berkley  leaned  back  in  his  easy 
chair,  and  read  as  follows. 


316  HYPERION, 


CHAPTER    IV. 

MUSICAL    SUFFERINGS    OF    JOHN    KREISLER. 

"  THEY  are  all  gone !  I  might  have  known  it 
by  the  whispering,  shuffling,  coughing,  humming 
through  all  the  notes  of  the  gamut.  It  was  a  true 
swarm  of  bees,  leaving  the  old  hive.  Gottlieb  has 
lighted  fresh  candles  for  me,  and  placed  a  bottle 
of  Burgundy  on  the  piano-forte.  I  can  play  no 
more,  I  am  perfectly  exhausted.  My  glorious  old 
friend  here  on  the  music-stand  is  to  blame  for 
that.  Again  he  has  borne  me  away  through  the 
air,  as  Mephistopheles  did  Faust,  and  so  high,  that 
I  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  the  little  men 
under  me,  though  I  dare  say  they  made  noise 
enough.  A  rascally,  worthless,  wasted  evening  ! 
But  now  I  am  well  and  merry  !  However,  while 
I  was  playing,  I  took  out  my  pencil,  and  on  page 
sixty-three,  under  the  last  staff,  noted  down  a 
couple  of  good  flourishes  in  cipher  with  my  right 


A    ROMANCE.  317 

hand,  while  the  left  was  struggling  away  in  the 
torrent  of  sweet  sounds.  Upon  the  hlank  page  at 
the  end  I  go  on  writing.  I  leave  all  ciphers  and 
sweet  sounds,  and  with  true  delight,  like  a  sick  man 
restored  to  health,  who  can  never  stop  relating 
what  he  has  suffered,  I  note  down  here  circumstan 
tially  the  dire  agonies  of  this  evening's  tea-party. 
And  not  for  myself  alone,  but  likewise  for  all  those 
who  from  time  to  time  may  amuse  and  edify 
themselves  with  my  copy  of  John  Sebastian 
Bach's  Variations  for  the  Piano-forte,  published 
by  Nageli  in  Zurich,  and  who  find  my  marks  at 
the  end  of  the  thirtieth  variation,  and,  led  on  by 
the  great  Latin  Verte^  (I  will  write  it  down  the 
moment  I  get  through  this  doleful  statement  of 
grievances,)  turn  over  the  leaf  and  read. 

u  They  will  at  once  see  the  connection.  They 
know  that  the  Geheimerath  Rodelein's  house  is  a 
charming  house  to  visit  in,  and  that  he  has  two 
daughters,  of  whom  the  whole  fashionable  world 
proclaims  with  enthusiasm,  that  they  dance  like 
goddesses,  speak  French  like  angels,  and  play  and 
sing  and  draw  like  the  Muses.  The  Geheimerath 
Rodelein  is  a  rich  man.  At  his  quarterly  dinners 
he  brings  on  the  most  delicious  wines  and  richest 
dishes.  All  is  established  on  a  footing  of  the 


318  HYPERION, 

greatest  elegance  ;  and  whoever  at  his  tea-parties 
does  not  amuse  himself  heavenly,  has  no  ton,  no 
esprit,  and  particularly  no  taste  for  the  fine  arts. 
It  is  with  an  eye  to  these,  that,  with  the  tea,  punch, 
wine,  ices,  etc.,  a  little  music  is  always  served 
up,  which,  like  the  other  refreshments,  is  very 
quietly  swallowed  by  the  fashionable  world. 

"  The  arrangements  are  as  follows. — After  every 
guest  has  had  time  enough  to  drink  as  many  cups  of 
tea  as  he  may  wish,  and  punch  and  ices  have  been 
handed  round  twice,  the  servants  wheel  out  the 
card-tables  for  the  elder  and  more  solid  part  of  the 
company,  who  had  rather  play  cards  than  any  mu 
sical  instrument ;  and,  in  fact,  this  kind  of  playing 
does  not  make  such  a  useless  noise  as  the  other, 
and  you  hear  only  the  clink  of  money. 

"  This  is  a  hint  for  the  younger  part  of  the  com 
pany  to  pounce  upon  the  Misses  Rodelein.  A 
great  tumult  ensues  ;  in  the  midst  of  which  you 
can  distinguish  these  words,  — 

'"  Schones  Frdulein!  do  not  refuse  us  the 
gratification  of  your  heavenly  talent !  O,  sing 
something!  that  's  a  good  dear!  —  impossible, — 
bad  cold,  —  the  last  ball !  have  not  practised  any 
thing,  —  oh,  do,  do,  we  beg  of  you,'  etc. 

"  Meanwhile  Gottlieb  has  opened  the  piano-forte, 


A    ROMANCE.  319 

and  placed  the  well-known  music-book  on  the 
stand  ;  and  from  the  card-table  cries  the  respect 
able  mamma, — 

" '  Chantez  done,  mes  enfants!  ' 

"  That  is  the  cue  of  my  part.  I  place  myself  at 
the  piano-forte,  and  the  Rb'deleins  are  led  up  to  the 
instrument  in  triumph. 

"  And  now  another  difficulty  arises.  Neither 
wishes  to  sing  first. 

"'You  know,  dear  Nanette,  how  dreadfully 
hoarse  I  am.' 

" '  Why,  my  dear  Marie,  I  am  as  hoarse  as 
you  are.' 

"  '  I  sing  so  badly  !  —  * 

"  '  O  my  dear  child  ;  do  begin  ! ' 

"  My  suggestion,  (I  always  make  the  same!) 
that  they  should  both  begin  together  with  a  duet, 
is  loudly  applauded  ;  —  the  music-book  is  thumbed 
over,  and  the  leaf,  carefully  folded  down,  is  at 
length  found,  and  away  we  go  with  Dolce  deW 
anima,  etc. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  the  talent  of  the  Misses  Ro- 
delein  is  not  the  smallest.  I  have  been  an  instructor 
here  only  five  years,  and  little  short  of  two  years  in 
the  Rodelein  family.  In  this  short  tim.e,  Fiaulein 
Nanette  has  made  such  progress,  that  a  tune, 


320  HYPERION, 

which  she  has  neard  at  the  theatre  only  ten  times, 
and  has  played  on  the  piano-forte,  at  farthest,  ten 
times  more,  she  will  sing  right  off,  so  that  you 
know  in  a  moment  what  it  is.  Fraulein  Marie 
catches  it  at  the  eighth  time ;  and  if  she  is  some 
times  a  quarter  of  a  note  lower  than  the  piano 
forte,  after  all  it  is  very  tolerahle,  considering 
her  pretty  little  doll-face,  and  very  passable  rosy 
lips. 

"  After  the  duet,  a  universal  chorus  of  applause  ! 
And  now  arriettas  and  duettinos  succeed  each 
other,  and  right  merrily  I  hammer  away  at  the 
thousand-times-repeated  accompaniments.  During 
the  singing,  the  Finanzrathin  Eberstein,  by  cough 
ing  and  humming,  has  given  us  to  understand  that 
she  also  sings.  Fraulein  Nanette  says  : 

"  '  But,  my  dear  Finanzrathin,  now  you  must  let 
us  hear  your  exquisite  voice*." 

"  A  new  tumult  arises.  She  has  a  bad  cold  in 
her  head, —  she  does  not  know  any  thing  by  heart! 
Gottlieb  brings  straightway  two  armfuls  of  music- 
books  ;  and  the  leaves  are  turned  over  again  and 
again.  First  she  thinks  she  will  sing  Der  Holle 
Rache,  etc.,  then  Hebe  sich,  etc.,  then  Ach,  Ich 
iieble,  etc.  In  this  embarrassment,  I  propose, 
Ein  Veilchen  auf  der  Wiese,  etc.  But  she  is 


A    ROMANCE.  321 

for  the  heroic  style  ;  she  wants  to  make  a  display, 
and  finally  selects  Constanze. 

"O,  scream,  squeak,  mew,  gurgle,  groan,  ago 
nize,  quiver,  quaver,  just  as  much  as  you  please, 
Madam,  I  have  my  foot  on  the  fortissimo  pedal, 
and  thunder  myself  deaf  !  O  Satan,  Satan  !  which 
of  thy  goblins  damned  has  got  into  this  throat, 
pinching,  and  kicking,  and  cuffing  the  tones  about 
so  !  Four  strings  have  snapped  already,  and  one 
hammer  is  lamed  for  life.  My  ears  ring  again, — 
my  head  hums,  —  my  nerves  tremble  !  Have  all 
the  harsh  notes  from  the  cracked  trumpet  of  a 
mountebank  been  imprisoned  in  this  little  throat ! 
(But  this  excites  me, —  I  must  drink  a  glass  of 
Burgundy.) 

"  The  applause  was  unbounded  ;  and  some  one 
observed,  that  the  Finanzrathin  and  Mozart  had 
put  me  quite  into  a  blaze.  I  smiled  with  downcast 
eyes,  very  stupidly.  I  could  but  acknowledge  it. 
And  now  all  talents,  which  hitherto  had  bloomed 
unseen,  were  in  motion,  wildly  flitting  to  and  fro. 
They  were  bent  upon  a  surfeit  of  music ;  tuttis, 
finales,  choruses,  must  be  performed.  The  Ca- 
nonicus  Kratzer  sings,  you  know,  a  heavenly  bass, 
as  was  observed  by  the  gentleman  yonder,  with 
the  head  of  Titus  Andronicus,  who  modestly  re- 
21 


322  HYPERION, 

marked  also,  that  he  himself  was  properly  only  a 
second-rate  tenor  ;  but,  though  he  said  it,  who 
should  not  say  it,  he  was  nevertheless  member  of 
several  academies  of  music.  Forthwith  prepara 
tions  are  made  for  the  first  chorus  in  the  opera  oi 
Titus.  It  went  off  gloriously.  The  Canonicus, 
standing  close  behind  me,  thundered  out  the  bass 
over  my  head,  as  if  he  were  singing  with  bass-drums 
and  trumpet  obligate  in  a  cathedral.  He  struck 
the  notes  gloriously  ;  but  in  his  hurry  he  got  the 
tempo  about  twice  too  slow.  However,  he  was 
true  to  himself  at  least  in  this,  that  through  the 
whole  piece  he  dragged  along  just  half  a  beat  be 
hind  the  rest.  The  others  showed  a  most  decided 
penchant  for  the  ancient  Greek  music,  which,  as 
is  well  known,  having  nothing  to  do  with  harmony, 
ran  on  in  unison  or  monotone.  They  all  sang 
treble,  with  slight  variations,  caused  by  accidental 
rising  or  falling  of  the  voice,  say  some  quarter  of 
a  note. 

"  This  somewhat  noisy  affair  produced  a  uni 
versal  tragic  state  of  feeling,  namely  a  kind  of 
terror,  even  at  the  card-tables,  which  for  the  mo 
ment  could  no  longer,  as  before,  chime  in  melo 
dramatic,  by  weaving  into  the  music  sundry  ex 
clamations  ;  as,  for  instance  : 


A    ROMANCE.  323 

*"  O  !  I  loved,  —  eight  and  forty, — was  so 
happy,  —  I  pass,  —  then  I  knew  not,  —  whist,  — 
pangs  of  love, —  follow  suit,'  etc.  —  It  has  a  very 
pretty  effect.  (I  fill  my  glass.) 

"  That  was  the  highest  point  of  the  musical 
exhibition  this  evening.  '  Now  it  is  all  over,' 
thought  I  to  myself.  I  shut  the  book,  and  got 
up  from  the  piano-forte.  But  the  Baron,  my 
ancient  tenor,  came  up  to  me  and  said  : 

" '  My  dear  Herr  Capellmeister,  they  say  you 
play  the  most  exquisite  voluntaries  !  Now  do 
play  us  one  ;  only  a  short  one,  I  entreat  you  ! ' 

"  I  answered  very  dryly,  that  to-day  my  fanta 
sies  had  all  gone  a  wool-gathering ;  and  while  we 
are  talking  about  it,  a  devil,  in  the  shape  of  a 
dandy,  with  two  waistcoats,  had  smelt  out  Bach's 
Variations,  which  were  lying  under  my  hat  in  the 
next  room.  He  thinks  they  are  merely  little 
variations,  such  as  Nel  cor  mio  nonpiu  sento,  or 
Ah,  vous  dirai-je,  maman,  etc.,  and  insists  upon 
it  that  I  shall  play  them.  I  try  to  excuse  myself, 
but  they  all  attack  me.  So  then,  c  Listen,  and 
burst  with  ennui,'  think  I  to  myself,  —  and  be 
gin  to  work  away. 

"  When  I  had  got  to  variation  number  three, 
several  ladies  departed,  followed  by  the  gentleman 


324  HYPERION, 

with  the  Titus-Andronicus  head.  The  Rodeleins 
as  their  teacher  was  playing,  stood  it  out,  though  no\ 
without  difficulty,  to  number  twelve.  Number  fif 
teen  made  the  man  with  two  waistcoats  take  to  his 
heels.  Out  of  most  excessive  politeness,  the  Baron 
stayed  till  number  thirty,  and  drank  up  all  the 
punch,  which  Gottlieb  placed  on  the  piano-forte 
for  me. 

"  I  should  have  brought  all  to  a  happy  conclu 
sion,  but,  alas  !  this  number  thirty —  the  theme- 
tore  me  irresistibly  away.  Suddenly  the  quarto 
leaves  spread  out  to  a  gigantic  folio,  on  which 
a  thousand  imitations  and  developments  of  the 
theme  stood  written,  and  I  could  not  choose  but 
play  them.  The  notes  became  alive,  and  glim 
mered  and  hopped  all  round  about  me, —  an  elec 
tric  fire  streamed  through  the  tips  of  my  fingers 
into  the  keys, —  the  spirit,  from  which  it  gushed 
forth,  spread  his  broad  wings  over  my  soul,  the 
whole  room  was  filled  with  a  thick  mist,  in  which 
the  candles  burned  dim,  —  and  through  which 
peered  forth  now  a  nose,  and  anon  a  pair  of  eyes, 
and  then  suddenly  vanished  away  again.  And 
thus  it  came  to  pass,  that  I  was  left  alone  with 
my  Sebastian  Bach,  by  Gottlieb  attended,  as  by 
a  familiar  spirit.  (Your  good  health,  Sir.) 


A    ROMANCE.  325 

"  Is  an  honest  musician  to  be  tormented  with 
music,  as  I  have  been  to-day,  and  am  so  often 
tormented  ?  Verily,  no  art  is  so  damnably  abused, 
as  this  same  glorious,  holy  Musica,  who,  in  her 
delicate  being,  is  so  easily  desecrated.  Have 
you  real  talent,  —  real  feeling  for  art?  Then 
study  music,  —  do  something  worthy  of  the  art, 
—  and  dedicate  your  whole  soul  to  the  beloved 
saint.  If  without  this  you  have  a  fancy  for  qua 
vers  and  demi-semi-quavers,  practise  for  yourself 
and  by  yourself,  and  torment  not  therewith  the 
Capellmeister  Kreisler  and  others. 

"  Well,  now  I  might  go  home,  and  put  the 
finishing  touch  to  my  sonata  for  the  piano-forte  ;  but 
it  is  not  yet  eleven  o'clock,  and,  withal,  a  beau 
tiful  summer  night.  I  will  lay  any  wager,  that  at 
my  neighbour's,  the  Oberjagermeister,  the  young 
ladies  are  sitting  at  the  window,  screaming  down 
into  the  street,  for  the  twentieth  time,  with 
harsh,  sharp,  piercing  voices,  '  When  thine  eye 
is  beaming,  love,' — but  only  the  first  stanza,  over 
and  over  again.  Obliquely  across  the  way,  some 
one  is  murdering  the  flute,  and  has,  moreover, 
lungs  like  Rameau's  nephew ;  and,  in  notes  of 
'  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,'  his  neighbour 
is  trying  acoustic  experiments  on  the  French  horn. 


326  HYPERION, 

The  numerous  dogs  of  the  neighbourhood  are 
growing  unquiet,  and  my  landlord's  cat,  inspired 
by  that  sweet  duet,  is  making,  by  my  window,  (for, 
of  course,  mymusico-poetic  laboratory  is  an  attic,) 
certain  tender  confessions,  —  upward  through  the 
whole  chromatic  scale,  soft  complaining,  to  the 
neighbour's  tabby,  with  whom  he  has  been  in  love 
since  March  last !  Till  this  is  all  fairly  over,  I 
*  think  I  will  sit  quietly  here.  Besides,  there  is 
still  blank  paper  and  Burgundy  left,  of  which  I 
forthwith  take  a  sip. 

"  There  is,  as  I  have  heard,  an  ancient  law, 
forbidding  those,  who  follow  any  noisy  handi 
craft,  from  living  near  literary  men.  Should  not 
then  musical  composers,  poor,  and  hard  beset,  and 
who,  moreover,  are  forced  to  coin  their  inspira 
tion  into  gold,  to  spin  out  the  thread  of  life  withal, 
be  allowed  to  apply  this  law  to  themselves,  and 
banish  out  of  the  neighbourhood  all  ballad-singers 
and  bagpipers  ?  What  would  a  painter  say,  while 
transferring  to  his  canvass  a  form  of  ideal  beauty, 
if  you  should  hold  up  before  him  all  manner  ot 
wild  faces  and  ugly  masks  ?  He  might  shut  his 
eyes,  and  in  this  way,  at  least,  quietly  follow  out 
.the  images  of  fancy.  Cotton,  in  one's  ears,  is  of 
no  use ;  one  still  hears  the  dreadful  massacre. 


A    ROMANCE.  327 

And  then  the  idea,  —  the  bare  idea,  '  Now  they 
are  going  to  sing,  —  now  the  horn  strikes  up,'  — 
is  enough  to  send  one's  sublimest  thoughts  to  th« 
very  devil." 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER    V. 

SAINT    GILGEN. 

IT  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning  when  Flem 
ming  and  Berkley  left  behind  them  the  cloud-cap 
ped  hills  of  Salzburg,  and  journeyed  eastward 
towards  the  lakes.  The  landscape  around  them 
was  one  to  attune  their  souls  to  holy  musings. 
Field,  forest,  hill  and  vale,  fresh  air,  and  the  per 
fume  of  clover-fields  and  new-mown  hay,  birds 
singing,  and  the  sound  of  village  bells,  and  the 
moving  breeze  among  the  branches,  —  no  laborers 
in  the  fields,  but  peasants  on  their  way  to  church, 
coming  across  the  green  pastures,  with  roses  in 
their  hats,  —  the  beauty  and  quiet  of  the  holy  day 
of  rest,  —  all,  all  in  earth  and  air,  breathed  upon 
the  soul  like  a  benediction. 

They  stopped  to  change  horses  at  Hof,  a  hand 
ful  of  houses  on  the  brow  of  a  breezy  hill,  the 
church  and  inn  standing  opposite  to  each  other, 
and  nothing  between  them  but  the  dusty  road, 


A    ROMANCE.  329 

and  the  churchyard,  with  its  iron  crosses,  and  the 
fluttering  tinsel  of  the  funeral  garlands.  In  the 
churchyard,  and  at  the  inn-door,  were  groups  of 
peasants,  waiting  for  divine  service  to  begin. 
They  were  clothed  in  their  holyday  dresses. 
The  men  wore  breeches  and  long  boots,  and 
frock-coats  with  large  metal  buttons  ;  the  women, 
straw  hats,  and  gay  calico  gowns  with  short  waists 
and  scant  folds.  They  were  adorned  with  a  pro 
fusion  of  great  trumpery  ornaments,  and  remind 
ed  Flemming  of  the  Indians  in  the  frontier  villages 
of  America.  Near  the  churchyard-gate  was  a 
booth,  filled  with  flaunting  calicoes  ;  and  opposite 
sat  an  old  woman  behind  a  table,  which  was  load 
ed  with  gingerbread.  She  had  a  roulette  at  her 
elbow,  where  the  peasants  risked  a  kreutzer  for  a 
cake.  On  other  tables,  cases  of  knives,  scythes, 
reapinghooks,  and  other  implements  of  husbandry 
were  offered  for  sale. 

The  travellers  continued  their  journey,  without 
stopping  to  hear  mass.  In  the  course  of  the  fore 
noon,  they  came  suddenly  in  sight  of  the  beautiful 
lake  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  lying  deep  beneath 
them  in  the  valley.  On  its  shore,  under  them, 
sat  the  white  village  of  Saint  Gilgen,  like  a  swan 
upon  its  reedy  nest.  They  seemed  to  have  taken 


330  HYPERION, 

it  unawares,  and  as  it  were  clapped  their  hand* 
upon  it  in  its  sleep,  and  almost  expected  to  see  it 
spread  its  broad  snow-white  wings  and  fly  away. 
The  whole  scene  was  one  of  surpassing  beauty. 

They  drove  leisurely  down  the  steep  hill,  and 
stopped  at  the  village  inn.  Before  the  door  was 
a  magnificent  broad-armed  tree,  with  benches  and 
tables  beneath  its  shadow.  On  the  front  of  the 
house  was  written  in  large  letters,  "  Post-Tavern 
by  Franz  Schondorfer"  ;  and  over  this  was  a 
large  sundial,  and  a  half-effaced  painting  of  a 
bear-hunt,  covering  the  whole  side  of  the  house, 
and  mostly  red.  As  they  drove  up,  a  procession 
of  priests  with  banners,  and  peasants  with  their 
hats  in  their  hands,  passed  by  towards  the  church. 
They  were  singing  a  solemn  psalm.  At  the  same 
moment,  a  smart  servant  girl,  with  a  black  straw 
hat  set  coquettishly  on  her  flaxen  hair,  and  a  large 
silver  spoon  in  her  girdle,  came  out  of  the  inn,  and 
asked  Flemming  what  he  would  please  to  order 
for  breakfast. 

Breakfast  was  soon  ready,  and  was  served  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  on  an  old-fashioned  oaken 
table  in  the  great  hall,  into  which  the  chambers 
opened.  Berkley  ordered  at  the  same  time  a  tub 
of  cold  water,  in  which  he  seated  himself,  with 


A    ROMANCE.  331 

his  coat  on,   and  a  bed-quilt  thrown  round  his 
knees.     Thus  he  sat  for  an  hour  ;  ate  his  break 
fast,  and  smoked  a  pipe,  and  laughed  a  good  deal 
He  then  went  to  bed  and  slept  till   dinner-time 
Meanwhile  Flemming  sat  in  his  chamber  and  read. 
It  was  a  large  room  in  the  front  of  the  house, 
looking  upon  the  village  and  the  lake.     The  win 
dows  were  latticed,  with  small  panes,   and  the 
window-sills  filled  with  fragrant  flowers. 

At  length  the  heat  of  noon  was  over.  Day, 
like  a  weary  pilgrim,  had  reached  the  western 
gate  of  heaven,  and  Evening  stooped  down  to 
unloose  the  latchets  of  his  sandal-shoon.  Flem 
ming  and  Berkley  sallied  forth  to  ramble  by  the 
borders  of  the  lake.  Down  the  cool  green  glades 
and  alleys,  beneath  the  illuminated  leaves  of  the 
forest,  over  the  rising,  grounds  in  the  glimmering 
fretwork  of  sunshine  and  leaf-shadow, — an  exhil 
arating  walk  !  The  cool  evening  air  by  the  lake 
was  like  a  bath.  They  drank  the  freshness  of  the 
hour  in  thirsty  draughts,  and  their  breasts  heaved 
rejoicing  and  revived,  after  the  feverish,  long  con 
finement  of  the  sultry  summer  day.  And  there, 
too,  lay  the  lake,  so  beautiful  and  still  !  Did  it 
not  recall,  think  ye,  the  lake  of  Thun  ? 

On  their  return  homeward,  they  passed  near  the 
village  churchyard. 


332  HYPERION, 

"  Let  us  go  in  and  see  bow  the  dead  rest," 
said  Flemming,  as  they  passed  beneath  the  belfry 
of  the  church  ;  and  they  went  in,  and  lingereu 
among  the  tombs  and  the  evening  shadows. 

How  peaceful  is  the  dwelling-place  of  those 
who  inhabit  the  green  hamlets  and  populous  cities 
of  the  dead  !  They  need  no  antidote  for  care,  — 
no  armor  against  fate.  No  morning  sun  shines 
in  at  the  closed  windows  and  awakens  them,  nor 
shall  until  the  last  great  day.  At  most,  a  strag 
gling  sunbeam  creeps  in  through  the  crumbling 
wall  of  an  old,  neglected  tomb,  — a  strange  visiter, 
that  stays  not  long.  And  there  they  all  sleep, 
the  holy  ones,  with  their  arms  crossed  upon  their 
breasts,  or  lying  motionless  by  their  sides,  —  not 
carved  in  marble  by  the  hand  of  man,  but  formed 
in  dust  by  the  hand  of  God.  God's  peace  be 
with  them  !  No  one  comes  to  them  now,  to  hold 
them  by  the  hand,  and  with  delicate  fingers 
to  smooth  their  hair.  They  heed  no  more  the 
blandishments  of  earthly  friendship.  They  need 
us  not,  however  much  we  may  need  them.  And 
yet  they  silently  await  our  coming. 

Beautiful  is  that  season  of  life,  when  we  can 
s'ay,  in  the  language  of  Scripture,  "  Thou  hast 
the  dew  of  thy  youth."  But  of  these  flowers 


A    ROMANCE.  333 

Death  gathers  many.  He  places  them  upon  his 
bosom,  and  he  is  transformed  into  something  less 
terrific  than  before.  We  learn  to  gaze  and  shud 
der  not ;  for  he  carries  in  his  arms  the  sweet  blos 
soms  of  our  earthly  hopes.  We  shall  see  then? 
all  again,  blooming  in  a  happier  land. 

Yes,  Death  brings  us  again  to  our  friends. 
They  are  waiting  for  us,  and  we  shall  not  long 
delay.  They  have  gone  before  us,  and  are  like 
the  angels  in  heaven.  They  stand  upon  the  bor 
ders  of  the  grave  to  welcome  us,  with  the  coun 
tenance  of  affection  which  they  wore  on  earth ; 
yet  more  lovely,  more  radiant,  more  spiritual ! 
He  spake  well  who  said  that  graves  are  the  foot 
prints  of  angels ! 

Death  has  taken  thee,  too,  and  thou  hast  the 
dew  of  thy  youth.  He  has  placed  thee  upon  his 
bosom,  and  his  stern  countenance  wears  a  smile. 
The  far  country,  toward  which  we  journey,  seems 
nearer  to  us,  and  the  way  less  dark  ;  for  thou  hast 
gone  before,  passing  so  quietly  to  thy  rest,  that 
day  itself  dies  not  more  calmly ! 

It  was  in  an  hour  of  blessed  communion  with 
the  souls  of  the  departed,  that  the  sweet  poet 
Henry  Vaughan  wrote  those  few  lines  which 
have  made  death  lovely. 


>34  HFPERION, 

•'*  They  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 

Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

"  It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  dressed 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

"  I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days, 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 

"  O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  ye  have  showed  them  me, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

"  Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

"  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

"  And  yet  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep  ! 


A    ROMANCE.  335 

"  If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flame  must  needs  burn  there , 
But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gave  room, 
She  'd  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

'  O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  tlieo  ! 
Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

*  Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective,  still  as  they  pass, 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass." 

Such  were  Flemming's  thoughts,  as  he  stood 
among  the  tombs  at  evening  in  the  churchyard  of 
Saint  Gilgen.  A  holy  calm  stole  Qver  him.  The 
fever  of  his  heart  was  allayed.  He  had  a  mo 
ment's  rest  from  pain  ;  and  went  back  to  his  cham 
ber  in  peace.  Whence  came  this  holy  calm,  this 
long-desired  tranquillity  ?  He  knew  not ;  yet  the 
place  seemed  consecrated.  He  resolved  to  linger 
there,  beside  the  lake,  which  was  a  Pool  of  Be- 
thesda  for  him  ;  and  let  Berkley  go  on  alone  to  the 
baths  of  Ischel.  He  would  wait  for  him  there 
in  the  solitude  of  Saint  Gilgen.  Long  after  they 
had  parted  for  the  night,  he  sat  in  his  chamber, 
and  thought  of  what  he  had  suffered,  and  enjoyed 
the  silence  within  and  without.  Hour  after  hour 


336  HYPERION, 

slipped  by  unheeded,  as  he  sat  lost  in  his  reverie. 
At  length,  his  candle  sank  in  its  socket,  gave  one 
flickering  gleam,  and  expired  with  a  sob.  This 
aroused  him. 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  peered  out  into 
the  dark  night.  It  was  very  late.  Twice  already 
since  midnight  had  the  great  pulpit-orator  Time, 
like  a  preacher  in  the  days  of  the  Puritans,  turned 
the  hourglass  on  his  high  pulpit,  the  church  bel 
fry,  and  still  went  on  with  his  sermon,  thundering 
downward  to  the  congregation  in  the  churchyard 
and  in  the  village.  But  they  heard  him  not. 
They  were  all  asleep  in  their  narrow  pews,  name 
ly,  in  their  beds  and  in  their  graves.  Soon  after 
ward  the  cock  crew  ;  and  the  cloudy  heaven,  like 
the  apostle  who  denied  his  Lord,  wept  bitterly. 


A    ROMANCE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SAINT    WOLFGANG. 

THE  morning  is  lovely  beyond  expression. 
The  heat  of  the  sun  is  great  ;  but  a  gentle  wind 
cools  the  air.  Birds  never  sang  more  loud  and 
clear.  The  flowers,  too,  on  the  window-sill,  and 
on  the  table,  rose,  geranium,  and  the  delicate 
crimson  cactus,  are  all  so  beautiful,  that  we  think 
the  German  poet  right,  when  he  calls' the  flowers 
"  stars  in  the  firmament  of  the  earth."  Out  of 
doors  all  is  quiet.  Opposite  the  window  stands 
the  village  schoolhouse.  There  are  two  parasite 
trees,  with  their  outspread  branches  nailed  against 
the  white  walls,  like  the  wings  of  culprit  kites. 
There  the  rods  grow.  Under  them,  on  a  bench 
at  the  door,  sit  school-girls  ;  and  barefoot  urchins 
in  breeches  are  spelling  out  their  lessons.  The 
clock  strikes  twelve,  and  one  by  one  they  disap 
pear,  and  go  into  the  hive,  like  bees  at  the  sound 
of  a  brass  pan.  At  the  door  of  the  next  house 
22 


338  HYPERION, 

sits  a  poor  woman,  knitting  in  the  shade  ;  and  in 
front  of  her  is  an  aqueduct,  pouring  its  cool,  clear 
water  into  a  rough  wooden  trough.  A  travelling 
carriage,  without  horses,  stands  at  the  inn-door, 
and  a  postilion  in  red  jacket  is  talking  with  a 
blacksmith,  who  wears  blue  woollen  stockings  and 
a  leather  apron.  Beyond  is  a  stable,  and  still  far 
ther  a  cluster  of  houses  and  the  village  church. 
They  are  repairing  the  belfry  and  the  bulbous 
steeple.  A  little  farther,  over  the  roofs  of  the 
houses,  you  can  see  Saint  Wolfgang's  lake 
Water  so  bright  and  beautiful  hardly  flows  else 
where.  Green  and  blue  and  silver-white  run  in 
to  each  other,  with  almost  imperceptible  change 
And  above  are  the  pinnacles  of  the  mountains  ; 
some  bald,  and  rocky,  and  cone-shaped,  and  oth 
ers  bold,  and  broad,  and  dark  with  pines. 

Such  was  the  scene  which  Paul  Flemming  be 
held  from  his  window  a  few  mornings  after  Berk 
ley's  departure.  The  quiet  of  the  place  had 
soothed  him.  He  had  become  more  calm.  His 
heart  complained  less  loudly  in  the  holy  village 
silence,  as  we  are  wont  to  lower  our  voices  when 
those  around  us  speak  in  whispers.  He  began  to 
feel  at  times  an  interest  in  the  lowly  things  about 
him.  The  face  of  the  landscape  pleased  him, 


A    ROMANCE.  339 

but  more  than  this  the  face  of  the  poor  woman 
who  sat  knitting  in  the  shade.  It  was  a  pale, 
meek  countenance,  with  more  delicacy  in  its  fea 
tures  than  is  usual  among  peasantry.  It  wore  al 
so  an  expression  of  patient  suffering.  As  he  was 
looking  at  her,  a  deformed  child  came  out  of  the 
door  and  hung  upon  her  knees.  She  caressed 
him  affectionately.  It  was  her  child,  in  whom 
she  beheld  her  own  fair  features  distorted  and 
hardly  to  be  recognized,  as  one  sometimes  sees 
one's  face  reflected  from  the  bowl  of  a  spoon. 

The  child's  deformity  and  the  mother's  tender 
ness  interested  the  feelings  of  Flemming.  The 
landlady  told  him  something  of  the  poor  woman's 
history.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  blacksmith, 
who  had  died  soon  after  their  marriage.  But  she 
survived  to  become  a  mother,  as,  in  oaks,  imme 
diately  after  fecundation,  the  male  flower  fades 
and  falls,  while  the  female  continues  and  ripens 
into  perfect  fruit.  Alas  !  her  child  was  deformed. 
Yet  she  looked  upon  him  with  eyes  of  maternal 
fondness  and  pity,  loving  him  still  more  for  his 
deformity.  And  in  her  heart  she  said,  as  the 
Mexicans  say  to  their  new-born  offspring,  "  Child, 
thou  art  come  into  the  world  to  suffer.  Endure, 
and  hold  thy  peace."  Though  poor,  she  was  not 


340  HYPERION, 

entirely  destitute  ;  for  her  husband  had  left  her, 
besides  the  deformed  child,  a  life  estate  in  a  tomb 
in  the  churchyard  of  Saint  Gilgen.  During  the 
week  she  labored  for  other  people,  and  on  Sun 
days  for  herself,  by  going  to  church  and  reading 
the  Bible.  On  one  of  the  blank  leaves  she  had 
recorded  the  day  of  her  birth,  and  that  of  her 
child's,  likewise  her  marriage  and  her  husband's 
death.  Thus  she  lived,  poor,  patient,  and  resign 
ed.  Her  heart  was  a  passion-flower,  bearing 
within  it  the  crown  of  thorns  and  the  cross  of 
Christ.  Her  ideas  of  heaven  were  few  and  sim 
ple.  She  rejected  the  doctrine  that  it  was  a  place 
of  constant  activity,  and  not  of  repose,  and  be 
lieved,  that,  when  she  at  length  reached  it,  she 
should  work  no  more,  but  sit  always  in  a  clean 
white  apron,  and  sing  psalms. 

As  Flemming  sat  meditating  on  these  things,  he 
paid  new  tromage  in  his  heart  to  the  beauty  and 
excellence  of  the  female  character.  He  thought 
of  the  absent  and  the  dead  ;  and  said,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  :  — 

"  Shall  I  thank  God  for  the  green  summer,  and 
the  mild  air,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  stars,  and 
all  that  makes  this  world  so  beautiful,  and  not  for 
the  good  and  beautiful  beings  I  have  known  in  it  ? 


A    ROMANCE.  341 

Has  not  their  presence  been  sweeter  to  me  than 
flowers  ?  Are  they  not  higher  and  holier  than 
the  stars  ?  Are  they  not  more  to  me  than  all 
things  else  ? " 

Thus  the  morning  passed  away  in  musings  ; 
and  in  the  afternoon,  when  Flemming  was  prepar 
ing  to  go  down  to  the  lake,  as  his  custom  was,  a 
carriage  drew  up  before  the  door,  and,  to  his 
great  astonishment,  out  jumped  Berkley.  The 
first  thing  he  did  was  to  give  the  postmaster,  who 
stood  near  the  door,  a  smart  cut  with  his  whip. 
The  sufferer  gently  expostulated,  saying, — 

"  Pray,  Sir,  don't ;  I  am  lame." 

Whereupon  Berkley    desisted,  and  began  in 
stead    to    shake    the    postmaster's    wife   by    the 
shoulders,  and  order  his  dinner  in  English.     But 
all  this  was  done  so  good-naturedly,  and  with  such 
a  rosy,  laughing  face,  that  no  offence  was  taken. 

"  So  you  have  returned  much  sooner  than  you 
intended,"  said  Flemming,  after  the  first  friendly 
salutations. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Berkley  ;  "  I  became  tired  of 
Ischel, — very  tired.  I  did  not  find  there  the 
friends  I  expected.  Now  I  am  going  back  to 
Salzburg,  and  then  to  Gastein.  There  I  shall 
certainly  find  them.  You  must  go  with  me." 


342  HYPERION, 

Flemming  declined  the  invitation  ;  and  propos 
ed  to  Berkley  that  he  should  join  him  in  his  ex 
cursion  on  the  lake. 

"  You  shall  hear  the  grand  echo  of  the  Falken- 
stein,"  said  he,  "  and  behold  the  scene  of  the 
Bridal  Tragedy  ;  and  then  we  will  go  on  as 
far  as  the  village  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  which  you 
have  not  yet  seen,  except  across  the  lake." 

"  Well,  this  afternoon  I  devote  to  you  ;  for 
to-morrow  we  part  once  more,  and  who  knows 
when  we  shall  meet  again  ?  " 

They  went  down  to  the  water's  side  without 
farther  delay  ;  and,  taking  a  boat  with  two  oars, 
struck  across  an  elbow  of  the  lake  towards  a  bar 
ren  rock  by  the  eastern  shore,  from  which  a  small 
white  monument  shone  in  the  sun. 

"  That  monument,"  said  one  of  the  boatmen, 
a  stout  young  lad  in  leather  breeches,  "was  built 
by  a  butcher,  to  the  glory  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  who 
saved  him  from  drowning.  He  was  one  day  rid 
ing  an  ox  to  market  along  the  opposite  bank  ;  when 
the  animal,  taking  fright,  sprang  into  the  water,  and 
swam  over  to  this  place,  with  the  butcher  on  his 
back." 

"  And  do  you  think  he  could  have  done  this," 
asked  Berkley,  "  if  Saint  Wolfgang  had  not 
nebed  him  ?  " 


A    ROMANCE.  343 

"  Of  course  not !  "  answered  leather-breeches  ; 
and  the  Englishman  laughed. 

From  this  point  they  rowed  along  under  the 
shore  to  a  low  promontory,  upon  which  stood 
another  monument,  commemorating  a  more  tragi 
cal  event. 

"  This  is  the  place  I  was  speaking  of,"  said 
Flemming,  as  the  boatmen  rested  on  their  oars. 
"  The  melancholy  and  singular  event  it  com 
memorates  happened  more  than  two  centuries 
ago.  There  was  a  bridal  party  here  upon  the 
ice,  one  winter  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  dance  the 
ice  broke,  and  the  whole  merry  company  were 
drowned  together,  except  the  fiddlers,  who  were 
sitting  on  the  shore." 

They  looked  in  silence  at  the  monument,  and 
at  the  blue  quiet  water,  under  which  the  bones  of 
the  dancers  lay  buried,  hand  in  hand.  The  mon 
ument  is  of  stone,  painted  white,  with  an  over 
hanging  roof  to  shelter  it  from  storms.  In  a 
niche  in  front  is  a  small  image  of  the  Saviour,  in 
a  sitting  posture  ;  and  an  inscription  upon  a  mar 
ble  tablet  below  says  that  it  was  placed  there  by 
Longinus  Walther,  and  his  wife,  Barbara  Juliana 
von  Hainberg  ;  themselves  long  since  peacefully 
crumbled  to  dust,  side  by  side,  in  some  church 
yard. 


344  HYPERION, 

"  That  was  breaking  the  ice  with  a  ven 
geance  ! "  said  Berkley,  as  they  pushed  out  into 
the  lake  again  ;  and  ere  long  they  were  floating 
beneath  the  mighty  precipice  of  Falkenstein  ;  a 
steep  wall  of  rock,  crowned  with  a  chapel  and  a 
hermitage,  where  in  days  of  old  lived  the  holy 
Saint  Wolfgang.  It  is  now  haunted  only  by  an 
echo,  so  distinct  and  loud,  that  one  might  imagine 
the  ghost  of  the  departed  saint  to  be  sitting  there, 
and  repeating  the  voices  from  below,  —  not  word 
by  word,  but  sentence  by  sentence,  as  if  he  were 
passing  them  up  to  the  recording  angel. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "  shouted  Berkley  ;  and  the 
sound  seemed  to  strike  the  wall  of  stone,  like  the 
flapping  of  steel  plates  ;  —  "  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  How 
are  you  to-day,  Saint  Wolfgang?  You  infernal 
old  rascal!  How  is  the  Frau  von  Wolfgang?  — 
God  save  great  George,  our  king  !  Damn  your 
eyes  !  Hold  your  tongue  !  Ho  !  ho  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
hi!" 

And  the  words  were  recorded  above  ;  and  a 
voice  repeated  them  with  awful  distinctness  in  the 
olue  depths  overhead  ;  and  Flemming  felt  in  his 
inmost  soul  the  contrast  between  the  holy  heavens, 
and  the  mockery  of  laughter,  and  the  idle  words, 
which  fall  back  from  the  sky  above  us  and  soil 
not  its  purity. 


A    ROMANCE. 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  at  the  village  of 
Saint  Wolfgang,  threading  a  narrow  street,  above 
which  the  roofs  of  quaint,  picturesque  old  houses 
almost  met.  It  led  them  to  a  Gothic  church  ; 
a  magnificent  one  for  a  village  ;  —  in  front  of 
which  was  a  small  court,  shut  in  by  Italian-look 
ing  houses,  with  balconies,  and  flowers  at  the 
windows.  Here  a  bronze  fountain  of  elaborate 
workmanship  was  playing  in  the  shade.  On  its 
summit  stood  an  image  of  the  patron  saint  of  the 
village  ;  and,  running  round  the  under  lip  of  the 
water-basin  below,  they  read  this  inscription  in  old 
German  rhymes  :  — 

"  I  am  in  the  honor  of  Saint  Wolfgang  raised. 
Abbot  Wolfgang  Habel  of  Emensee,  he  hath 
made  me  for  the  use  and  delight  of  poor  pilgrim 
wight.  Neither  gold  nor  wine  hath  he  ,  at  this 
water  shall  he  merry  be.  In  the  year  of  the 
Lord  fifteen  hundred  and  fifteen  hath  the  work 
completed  been.  God  be  praised  !  " 

As  they  were  deciphering  the  rude  characters 
of  this  pious  inscription,  a  village  priest  came 
down  a  high  flight  of  steps  from  the  parsonage  near 
the  church,  and  courteously  saluted  the  strangers. 
After  returning  the  salutation,  the  mad  English 
man,  without  preface,  asked  him  how  many  nat- 


346  HYPERION, 

ural  children  were  annually  born  in   the  parish 
The  question  seemed  to  astonish  the  good  father  , 
but    he    answered  it   civilly,  as   he    did    several 
other  questions,  which  Flemming  thought  rather 
indiscreet,  to  say  the  least. 

"  You  will  excuse  our  curiosity,"  said  he  to 
the  priest,  by  way  of  apology.  "  We  are  stran 
gers  from  distant  countries.  My  friend  is  an 
Englishman,  and  I  an  American." 

Berkley,  however,  was  not  so  easily  silenced. 
After  a  few  moments'  conversation,  he  broke  out 
into  most  audacious  Latin,  in  which  the  only 
words  clearly  intelligible  were  :  — 

"  Plurimum  reverende,  in  Christo  religiosis- 
sime,  ac  clarissime  Domine,  necnon  et  amice  ob- 
servandissime  !  Petrus  sic  est  locutus  :  '  Nee 
argentum  mihi,  nee  aurum  est  ;  sed  quod  habeo, 
hoc  tibi  do  ;  surge  et  ambula.'  " 

He  seemed  to  be  speaking  of  the  fountain. 
The  priest  answered  meekly,  — 

"  Non  intellexi,  Domine  !  " 

But  Berkley  continued  with  great  volubility  to 
speak  of  his  being  a  stranger  in  the  land,  and  all 
men  being  strangers  upon  earth,  and  hoping  to 
meet  the  good  priest  hereafter  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  The  priest  seeemed  confounded  and 


A    ROMANCE  347 

abashed      Through  the  mist  of  a  strange  pronun 
ciation,  he  could  recognize  only  here  and  there  a 
familiar  word.     He  took  out  his  snuff-box  ;  and 
tried  to  quote  a  passage  from  Saint  Paul :  — 
u  Ut  dixit  Sanctus  Paulus  :    '  Qui  bene  facit 


Here  his  memory  failed  him,  or,  as  the  French 
say,  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  Latin,  and,  stretch 
ing  forth  his  long  forefinger,  he  concluded  in 
German  :  — 

"  Yes  ;  —  I  don't  —  so  clearly  remember  — 
what  he  did  say." 

The  Englishman  helped  him  through  with  a 
moral  phrase  ;  and  then,  pulling  off  his  hat,  ex 
claimed  very  solemnly  :  — 

"  Vale,  Dornine  doctissime  et  reverendis- 
sime  !  " 

And  the  Dominie,  as  if  pursued  by  a  demon, 
made  a  sudden  and  precipitate  retreat  down  a 
flight  of  steps  in  the  street. 

"  There  !  "  said  Berkley,  laughing,  "  I  beat 
him  at  his  own  weapons.  What  do  you  say  of 
my  Latin  ?  " 

"  I  say  of  it,"  replied  Flemming,  "  what  Ho- 
lofernes  said  of  Sir  Nathaniel's  :  —  '  Priscian  a 
little  scratched  't  will  serve.'  I  think  I  have 


348  HYPERION, 

heard  better.  But  what  a  whim  !  I  thought  I 
should  have  laughed  aloud." 

They  were  still  sitting  by  the  bronze  fountain, 
when  the  priest  returned,  accompanied  by  a  short 
man,  with  large  feet,  and  a  long  blue  surtout,  so 
greasy,  that  it  reminded  one  of  Polilla's  in  the 
Spanish  play,  which  was  lined  with  slices  of 
pork.  His  countenance  was  broad  and  placid, 
but  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  with  a  wild,  mysterious, 
sorrowful  expression.  Flemming  thought  the 
Latin  contest  was  to  be  renewed,  with  more  pow 
der  and  heavier  guns.  He  was  mistaken.  The 
stranger  saluted  him  in  German,  and  said,  that, 
having  heard  he  was  from  America,  he  had 
come  to  question  him  about  that  distant  country, 
for  which  he  was  on  the  point  of  embarking. 
There  was  nothing  peculiar  in  his  manner,  nor  in 
the  questions  he  asked,  nor  the  remarks  he  made. 
They  were  the  usual  questions  and  remarks  about 
cities  and  climate  and  sailing  the  sea.  At  length 
Flemming  asked  him  the  object  of  his  journey  to 
America.  The  stranger  came  close  to  him,  and, 
lowering  his  voice,  said  very  solemnly  :  — 

"  That  holy  man,  Frederick  Baraga,  missiona 
ry  among  the  Indians  at  Lacroix,  on  Lake  Supe 
rior,  has  returned  to  his  fatherland,  Krain  ;  and 


A    ROMANCE.  349 

1  am  chosen  by  Heaven  to  go  forth  as  Minister 
Extraordinary  of  Christ,  to  unite  all  nations  and 
people  in  one  church  !  " 

Fleinming  almost  started  at  the  singular  ear 
nestness  with  which  he  uttered  these  words  ;  and 
looked  at  him  attentively,  thinking  to  see  the  face 
of  a  madman.  But  the  modest,  unassuming  look 
of  that  placid  countenance  was  unchanged  ;  only 
in  the  eyes  burned  a  mysterious  light,  as  if  candles 
had  been  lighted  in  the  brain,  to  magnify  the 
daylight  there. 

"  It  is  truly  a  high  vocation,"  said  he,  in  reply. 
"  But  are  you  sure  that  this  is  no  hallucination  ? 
Are  you  certain  that  you  have  been  chosen  by 
Heaven  for  this  great  work  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain,"  replied  the  German,  in  a  tone 
of  great  calmness  and  sincerity  ;  "  and,  if  Saint 
Peter  and  Saint  Paul  should  come  down  from 
heaven  to  assure  me  of  it,  my  faith  would  be  no 
stronger  than  it  now  is.  It  has  been  declared  to 
me  by  many  signs  and  wonders.  I  can  no  longer 
doubt  nor  hesitate.  I  have  already  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Spirit,  speaking  to  me  at  night  ;  and 
I  know  that  I  am  an  apostle,  and  chosen  for  this 
work." 

Such  was  the  calm  enthusiasm  with  which  he 


1350  HYPERION, 

spoke,  that  Flemming  could  not  choose  but  listen. 
He  felt  interested  in  this  strange  being.  There 
was  something  awe-inspiring  in  the  spirit  that 
possessed  him.  After  a  short  pause,  he  con 
tinued  :  — 

"  If  you  wish  to  know  who  I  am,  I  can  tell 
you  in  few  words.  I  think  you  will  not  find  the 
story  without  interest." 

He  then  went  on  to  relate  the  circumstances 
recorded  in  the  following  chapter. 


A     ROMANCE.  351 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    STORY    OF    BROTHER    BERNARDUS. 

"  T  WAS  born  in  the  city  of  Stein,  in  the  land 
of  Krain.  My  pious  mother,  Gertrude,  sang  me 
psalms  and  spiritual  songs  in  childhood  ;  and  often, 
when  I  awoke  in  the  night,  I  saw  her  still  sitting 
patiently  at  her  work  by  the  stove,  and  heard  her 
singing  those  hymns  of  heaven,  or  praying  in  the 
midnight  darkness  when  her  work  was  done.  It 
was  for  me  she  prayed.  Thus,  from  my  earliest 
childhood,  I  breathed  the  breath  of  pious  aspira 
tions.  Afterwards  I  went  to  Laybach,  as  a  stu 
dent  of  -theology  ;  and,  after  the  usual  course  of 
study,  was  ordained  a  priest.  I  went  forth  to  the 
care  of  souls  ;  my  own  soul  filled  with  the  faith 
that  ere  long  all  people  would  be  united  in  one 
church.  Yet  at  times  my  heart  was  heavy,  to 
behold  how  many  nations  there  are  who  have  not 
heard  of  Christ ;  and  how  those,  who  are  called 
Christians,  are  divided  into  numberless  sects,  and 


352  HYPERION, 

how  among  these  are  many  who  are  Christians  in 
name  only.  I  determined  to  devote  myself  to 
the  great  work  of  the  one  church  universal,  and, 
for  this  purpose,  to  give  myself  wholly  up  to  the 
study  of  the  Evangelists  and  the  Fathers.  I  re 
tired  to  the  Benedictine  cloister  of  Saint  Paul  in 
the  valley  of  Lavant.  The  father-confessor  in 
the  nunnery  of  Laak,  where  I  then  lived,  strength 
ened  me  in  this  resolve.  I  had  long  walked  with 
this  angel  of  God  in  a  human  form,  and  his  part 
ing  benediction  sank  deep  into  my  soul.  The 
Prince- Abbot  Berthold,  of  blessed  memory,  was 
then  head  of  the  Benedictine  convent.  He  re 
ceived  me  kindly,  and  led  me  to  the  library  , 
where  I  gazed  with  secret  rapture  on  the  vast 
folios  of  the  Christian  Fathers,  from  which,  as 
from  an  arsenal,  I  was  to  draw  the  weapons  of 
holy  warfare.  In  the  study  of  these  the  year  of 
my  novitiate  passed.  I  became*  a  Franciscan 
friar,  and  took  the  name  of  Brother  Bernardus. 
Yet  my  course  of  life  remained  unchanged.  I 
seldom  left  the  cloister  ;  but  sat  in  my  cell,  and 
pored  over  those  tomes  of  holy  wisdom.  About 
this  time  the  aged  confessor  in  Laak  departed 
this  life.  His  death  was  made  known  to  me 
in  a  dream.  It  must  have  been  after  midnight, 


A    ROMANCE.  353 

when  I  thought  that  I  came  into  the  church, 
which  was  brilliantly  lighted  up.  The  dead 
body  of  the  venerable  saint  was  brought  in,  at 
tended  by  a  great  crowd.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  must  go  up  into  the  pulpit  and  pronounce  his 
funeral  oration  ;  and,  as  I  ascended  the  stairs, 
the  words  of  my  text  came  into  my  mind  :  — 
'  Blessed  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  is  the  death  of 
his  saints.'  My  funeral  sermon  ended  in  a  strain 
of  exultation  ;  and  I  awoke  with  '  Amen  !  '  upon 
my  lips.  A  few  days  afterwards,  I  heard  that 
on  that  night  the  old  man  died.  After  this  event, 
I  became  restless  and  melancholy.  I  strove  in 
vain  to  drive  from  me  my  gloomy  thoughts.  I 
could  no  longer  study.  I  was  no  longer  content 
ed  in  the  cloister.  I  even  thought  of  leaving  it. 

"  One  night,  I  had  gone  to  bed  early,  according 
to  my  custom,  and  had  fallen  asleep.  Suddenly 
I  was  awakehed  by  a  bright  and  wonderful  light, 
which  shone  all  about  me,  and  filled  me  with 
heavenly  rapture.  Shortly  after,  I  heard  a  voice, 
which  pronounced  distinctly  these  words,  in  the 
Sclavonian  tongue  :  — '  Remain  in  the  cloister  !  ' 
It  was  the  voice  of  my  departed  mother.  I  was 
fully  awake  ;  yet  saw  nothing  but  the  bright  light, 
which  disappeared  when  the  words  had  been 
2? 


354  HYPERION, 


spoken.      Still  it  was  broad  daylight  in  my  chain- 
oer.     I  thought  I  had   slept  beyond   my  usua. 
hour.     I  looked  at  my  watch.     It  was  just  one 
o'clock  after  midnight.     Suddenly   the  daylight 
vanished,  and  it  was  dark.     In  the  morning  I 
arose,  as  if  new-born,  through  the  wonderful  light 
and  the  words  of  my  mother's  voice.     It  was  no 
dream.     I  knew  it  was  the  will  of  God  that  I 
should  stay  ;  and  I  could  again  give  myself  up 
to  quiet  study.     I  read  the  whole  Bible  through 
once  more  in  the  original  text  ;  and  went  on  with 
the  Fathers  in  chronological  order.     Often,  af 
ter  the  apparition  of  the  light,  I  awoke  at  the 
same  hour  ;  and  though  I  heard  no  voice  and  saw 
no  light,  yet  was  refreshed  with  heavenly  conso 
lation. 

'*  Not  long  after  this,  an  important  event  hap 
pened  in  the  cloister.  In  the  absence  of  the 
deacon  of  the  abbey,  I  was  to  preach  the 
Thanksgiving  sermon  of  Harvest-home.  During 
the  week,  the  Prince-Abbot  Berthold  gave  up  the 
ghost ;  and  my  sermon  became  at  once  a  thanks 
giving  and  funeral  sermon.  Perhaps  it  may  not 
be  unworthy  of  notice,  that  I  was  thus  called  to 
pronounce  the  burial  discourse  over  the  body  of 
the  last  reigning  spiritual  Prince- Abbot  in  Ger- 


A    ROMANCE.  355 

many.     He  was  a  man  of  God,  and  worthy  of 
this  honor. 

"One  year  after  this  event,  I  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Biblical  Hermeneutics  in  Klagen- 
furt,  and  left  the  abbey  for  ever.  In  Klagenfurt 
I  remained  ten  years,  dwelling  in  the  same  house, 
and  eating  at  the  same  table,  with  seventeen  other 
professors.  Their  conversation  naturally  suggest 
ed  new  topics  of  study,  and  brought  to  my  no 
tice  books  which  I  had  never  before  seen.  One 
day  I  heard  at  table,  that  Maurus  Cappellari,  a 
monk  of  Camaldoli,  had  been  elected  Pope,  un 
der  the  name  of  Gregory  Sixteenth.  He  was 
spoken  of  as  a  very  learned  man,  who  had  writ 
ten  many  books.  At  this  time  I  was  a  firm  be 
liever  in  the  Pope's  infallibility ;  and  when  I 
heard  these  books  mentioned,  there  arose  in  me 
an  irresistible  longing  to  read  them.  I  inquired 
for  them  ;  but  they  were  nowhere  to  be  had.  At 
length  I  heard  that  his  most  important  work,  The 
Triumph  of  the  Holy  See  and  of  the  Church, 
had  been  translated  into  German  and  published  in 
Augsburg.  Ere  long  the  precious  volume  was  in 
my  hands.  I  began  to  read  it  with  the  profound- 
est  awe.  The  farther  I  read,  the  more  my  won 
der  grew.  The  subject  was  of  the  deepest  inter- 


356  HYPERION, 

est  to  me.  I  could  not  lay  the  book  out  of  my 
hand,  till  I  had  read  it  through  with  the  closest 
attention.  Now  at  length  my  eyes  were  opened. 
I  saw  before  me  a  monk  who  had  been  educated 
in  an  Italian  cloister ;  who,  indeed,  had  read 
much,  and  yet  only  what  was  calculated  to 
strengthen  him  in  the  prejudices  of  his  childhood  , 
and  who  had  entirely  neglected  those  studies  up 
on  which  a  bishop  should  most  rely,  in  order  to 
work  out  the  salvation  of  man.  I  perceived,  at 
the  same  time,  that  this  was  the  strongest  instru 
ment  for  battering  down  the  walls  which  separ 
ate  Christian  from  Christian.  I  saw,  though  as 
yet  dimly,  the  way  in  which  the  union  of  Chris 
tians  in  the  one  true  church  was  to  be  accom 
plished.  I  knew  not  whether  to  be  most  aston 
ished  at  my  own  blindness,  that,  in  all  my  previ 
ous  studies,  I  had  not  perceived  what  the  read 
ing  of  this  single  book  made  manifest  to  me  ;  or 
at  the  blindness  of  the  Pope,  who  had  undertak 
en  to  justify  such  follies,  without  perceiving  that 
at  the  same  moment  he  was  himself  lying  in  fatal 
error.  But  since  I  have  learned  more  thorough 
ly  the  ways  of  the  Lord,  I  am  now  no  more  as 
tonished  at  this,  but  pray  only  to  Divine  Provi 
dence,  who  so  mysteriously  prepares  all  people 


A    ROMANCE.  357 

to  be  united  in  one  true  church.  I  no  longer  be 
lieved  in  the  Pope's  infallibility  ;  nay,  I  believed 
even,  that,  to  the  great  injury  of  humanity,  he 
lay  in  fatal  error.  I  felt,  moreover,  that  now  the 
time  had  fully  come,  when  I  should  publicly  show 
myself,  and  found  in  America  a  parish  and  a 
school,  and  become  the  spiritual  guide  of  men 
and  the  schoolmaster  of  children. 

"  It  was  then,  and  on  that  account,  that  I 
wrote  in  the  Latin  tongue  my  great  work  on  Bib 
lical  Hermeneutics.  But  in  Germany  it  cannot 
be  published.  The  Austrian  censor  of  the  press 
cannot  find  time  to  read  it  ;  though  I  think,  that, 
if  I  have  spent  so  many  laborious  days  and  sleep 
less  nights  in  writing  it,  this  man  ought  likewise  to 
find  time  enough  not  only  to  read  it,  but  to  exam 
ine  all  the  grounds  of  my  reasoning,  and  point  out 
to  me  any  errors,  if  he  can  find  any.  Notwith 
standing,  the  Spirit  gave  me  no  repose,  but  urged 
me  ever  mightily  on  to  the  perfection  of  my  great 
work. 

"  One  morning  I  sat  writing,  under  peculiar  in 
fluences  of  the  Spirit,  upon  the  Confusion  of 
Tongues,  the  Division  of  the  People,  and  the 
importance  of  the  study  of  Comparative  Philol 
ogy,  in  reference  to  their  union  in  one  church. 


358  HYPERION, 

So  wrapped  was  I  in  the  thought,  that  I  came 
late  into  my  lecture-room  ;  and  after  lecture  re 
turned  to  my  chamber,  where  I  wrote  till  the 
clock  struck  twelve.  At  dinner,  one  of  the  Pro 
fessors  asked  if  any  one  had  seen  the  star 
about  which  so  much  was  said.  The  Profes 
sor  of  Physics  said  that  the  student  Johannes 
Schminke  had  come  to  him  in  the  greatest  haste, 
and  besought  him  to  go  out  and  see  the  wonder 
ful  star  ;  but,  being  incredulous  about  it,  he  made 
no  haste,  and,  when  they  came  into  the  street, 
the  star  had  disappeared.  When  I  heard  the  star 
spoken  of,  my  soul  was  filled  with  rapture  ;  and 
a  voice  within  me  seemed  to  say,  '  The  great 
time  is  approaching  ;  labor  unweariedly  in  thy 
work.'  I  sought  out  the  student,  and,  like  Her 
od,  inquired  diligently  at  what  time  the  star  ap 
peared.  He  informed  me,  that,  just  as  the  clock 
was  striking  eight,  in  the  morning,  he  went  out  of 
his  house  to  go  to  the  college,  and  saw  on  the 
square  a  crowd  looking  at  a  bright  star.  It  was 
the  very  hour,  when  I  was  writing  alone  in  my 
chamber  on  the  importance  of  Comparative  Phi 
lology  in  bringing  about  the  union  of  all  nations. 
I  felt  that  my  hour  had  come.  Strangely  moved, 
1  walked  up  and  down  mv  chamber.  The  even- 


A.    ROMANCE.  359 

ing  twilight  came  on.  I  lighted  my  lamp,  and 
drew  the  green  curtains  before  the  windows,  and 
sat  down  to  read.  But  hardly  had  I  taken  the 
book  into  my  hand,  when  the  Spirit  began  to 
move  me,  and  urge  me  then  to  make  my  last  de 
cision  and  resolve.  I  made  a  secret  vow  that  1 
would  undertake  the  voyage  to  America.  Sud 
denly  my  troubled  thoughts  were  still.  An  un 
wonted  rapture  filled  my  heart.  I  sat  and  read 
till  the  supper-bell  rang.  They  were  speaking 
at  table  of  a  red,  glaring  meteor,  which  had  just 
been  seen  in  the  air,  southeast  from  Klagenfurt, 
and  had  suddenly  disappeared  with  a  dull,  hollow 
sound.  It  was  the  very  moment  at  which  I  had 
taken  my  final  resolution  to  leave  my  native  land. 
Every  great  purpose  and  event  of  my  life  seemed 
heralded  and  attended  by  divine  messengers  ;  — 
the  voices  of  the  dead  ;  the  bright  morning  star, 
shining  in  the  clear  sunshine  ;  and  the  red  meteor 
in  the  evening  twilight. 

"I  now  began  seriously  to  prepare  for  my  de 
parture.  The  chamber  I  occupied  had  once 
been  the  library  of  a  Franciscan  convent.  Only 
a  thick  wall  separated  it  from  the  church.  In 
this  wall  was  a  niche,  with  heavy  folding-doors, 
which  had  served  the  Franciscans  as  a  repository 


360  HYPERION, 

for  prohibited  books.  Here  also  I  kept  my  pa 
pers,  and  my  great  work  on  Biblical  Herme- 
neutics.  The  inside  of  the  doors  was  covered 
with  horrible  caricatures  of  Luther,  Mfilancthon, 
Calvin,  and  other  great  men.  I  used  often  to 
look  at  them  with  the  deepest  melancholy,  when 
I  thought  that  these  great  men  likewise  had  labor 
ed  upon  earth,  and  fought  with  Satan  in  the 
church.  But  they  were  persecuted,  denounced, 
condemned  to  die.  So  perhaps  will  it  be  with 
me.  I  thought  of  this  often,  and  armed  myself 
against  the  fear  of  death.  I  was  in  constant  ap 
prehension,  lest  the  police  should  search  my 
chamber  during  my  absence,  and,  by  examining 
my  papers,  discover  my  doctrine  and  designs. 
But  the  Spirit  said  to  me  :  — '  Be  of  good  cheer  ; 
I  will  so  blind  the  eyes  of  thy  enemies,  that  it 
shall  not  once  occur  to  them  to  think  of  thy  writ 
ings.' 

"  At  length,  after  many  difficulties  and  temp 
tations  of  the  Devil,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Amer 
ica.  Yesterday  I  took  leave  of  my  dearest  friend, 
Gregory  Kuscher,  in  Hallstadt.  He  seemed 
filled  with  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  has  wonderful 
ly  strengthened  me  in  my  purpose.  All  the  hosts 
of  heaven  looked  on,  and  were  glad.  The  old 


A    ROMANCE.  361 

man  kissed  me,  at  parting  ;  and  I  ascended  the 
mountain  as  if  angels  bore  me  up  in  their  arms. 
Near  the  summit  lay  a  newly  fallen  avalanche, 
over  which,  as  yet,  no  footsteps  had  passed. 
This  was  my  last  temptation.  Ha  !  '  cried 
I  aloud,  '  Satan  has  prepared  a  snaie  for  me  ;  but 
I  will  conquer  him  with  godly  weapons.'  I 
sprang  over  the  treacherous  snow,  with  greater 
faith  than  St.  Peter  walked  the  waters  of  the 
Lake  of  Galilee  ;  and  came  down  the  valley, 
while  the  mountain  peaks  yet  shone  in  the  setting 
sun.  God  smiles  upon  me.  I  go  forth  full  of 
hopeful  courage.  On  Christmas  next,  I  shall  ex 
communicate  the  Pope." 

Saying  these  words,  he  slowly  and  solemnly 
took  his  leave,  like  one  conscious  of  the  great 
events  which  awaited  him,  and  withdrew  with  the 
other  priest  into  the  church.  Flemming  could 
not  smile  as  Berkley  did  ;  for  in  the  solitary,  sin 
gular  enthusiast,  who  had  just  left  them,  he  saw 
only  another  melancholy  victim  to  solitude  and 
over-labor  of  the  brain  ;  and  felt  how  painful  a 
thing  it  is,  thus  to  become  unconsciously  the  alms 
man  of  other  men's  sympathies,  a  kind  of  blind 
beggar  for  the  charity  of  a  good  wish  or  a  prayer. 

The  sun  was  now  setting.      Silently  they  float- 


362  HYPERION. 

ed  back  to  Saint  Gilgen,  amid  the  cool  evening 
shadows.  The  village  clock  struck  nine,  as  the} 
landed  ;  and  as  Berkley  was  to  depart  early  in 
the  morning,  he  went  to  bed  betimes.  On  bid 
ding  Flemming  good  night,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  in  the  morning  ;  so  good 
by,  and  God  bless  you.  Remember  my  parting 
words.  Never  mind  trifles.  In  this  world  a  man 
must  either  be  anvil  or  hammer.  Care  killed  a 
cat !  " 

"  I  have  heard  you  say  that  so  often,"  replied 
Flemming,  laughing,  "  that  I  begin  to  believe  it. 
But  I  wonder  if  Care  shaved  his  left  eyebrow, 
after  doing  the  deed,  as  the  ancient  Egyptians 
used  to  do  !  " 

"  Aha  !  now  you  are  sweeping  cobwebs  from 
the  sky  !  Good  night  !  Good  night  !  " 

A  sorrowful  event  happened  in  the  neighbour 
hood  that  night.  The  widow's  child  died  sudden 
ly.  "  Woe  is  me  !  "  —  thus  mourns  the  child 
less  mother  in  one  of  the  funeral  songs  of  Green 
land  ;  —  "Woe  is  me,  that  I  should  gaze  upon 
thy  place  and  find  it  vacant  !  In  vain  for  thee 
thy  mother  dries  the  sea-drenched  garments  !  " 
Not  in  these  words,  but  in  thoughts  like  these, 
did  the  poor  mother  bewail  the  death  of  her  child, 


A    ROMANCE.  363 

thinking  mostly  of  the  vacant  place,  and  the  daily 
cares  and  solicitudes  of  maternal  love.  Flemming 
saw  a  light  in  her  chamber,  and  shadows  moving 
to  and  fro,  as  he  stood  by  the  window,  gazing  in 
to  the  starry,  silent  sky.  But  he  little  thought 
of  the  awful  domestic  tragedy  which  was  even 
then  enacted  behind  those  thin  curtains  ! 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FOOTPRINTS    OF    ANGELS. 

IT  was  Sunday  morning  ;  and  the  church  bells 
were  all  ringing  together.  From  the  neighbour 
ing  villages  came  the  solemn,  joyful  sounds, 
floating  through  the  sunny  air,  mellow  and  faint 
and  low,  —  all  mingling  into  one  harmonious 
chime,  like  the  sound  of  some  distant  organ  in 
heaven.  Anon  they  ceased  ;  and  the  woods,  and 
the  clouds,  and  the  whole  village,  and  the  very  air 
itself,  seemed  to  pray,  —  so  silent  was  it  every 
where. 

Two  venerable  old  men  —  high  priests  and 
patriarchs  were  they  in  the  land  —  went  up  the 
pulpit  stairs,  as  Moses  and  Aaron  went  up  Mount 
Hor,  in  the  sight  of  all  the  congregation, — for 
the  pulpit  stairs  were  in  front,  and  very  high. 

Paul  Flemming  will  never  forget  the  sermon  he 
heard  that  day,  —  no,  not  even  if  he  should  live 


A    ROMANCE 


365 


to  be  as  old  as  he  who  preached  it.     The  text 
was,  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth."     It 
was  meant  to  console  the  pious,  poor  widow,  who 
sat  right  below  him  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs, 
all  in  black,  and  her  heart  breaking.     He  said 
nothing  of  the  terrors  of  death,  nor  of  the  gloom 
of  the  narrow  house  ;  but,  looking  beyond  these 
things,  as  mere  circumstances  to  which  the  imag 
ination  mainly  gives  importance,  he  told  his  hear 
ers  of  the  innocence   of   childhood  upon   earth, 
and  the  holiness  of  childhood  in  heaven,  and  how 
the  beautiful  Lord  Jesus  was  once   a  little  child, 
and  now  in  heaven  the  spirits  of  little  children 
walked  with  him,   and  gathered    flowers    in  the 
Gelds  of  Paradise.     Good  old  man  !    In   behalf 
of  humanity,   I  thank  thee  for  these    benignant 
words!     And    still  more  than  I,  the  bereaved 
mother  thanked  thee  ;  and  from  that  hour,  though 
she  wept  in  secret  for  her  child,  yet 

"  She  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  not  again." 

After  the  sermon,  Paul  Flemming  walked  forth 
alone  into  the  churchyard.  There  was  no  one 
there,  save  a  little  boy,  who  was  fishing  with  a 
pin  hook  in  a  grave  half  full  of  water.  But  a  few 


366  HYPERION, 

moments  afterward,  through  the  arched  gateway 
under  the  belfry,  came  a  funeral  procession.  At 
its  head  walked  a  priest  in  white  surplice,  chant 
ing.  Peasants,  old  and  young,  followed  him, 
with  burning  tapers  in  their  hands.  A  young  girl 
carried  in  her  arms  a  dead  child,  wrapped  in  its 
little  winding-sheet.  The  grave  was  close  under 
the  wall,  by  the  church-door.  A  vase  of  holy 
water  stood  beside  it.  The  sexton  took  the  child 
from  the  girl's  arms,  and  put  it  into  a  coffin  ; 
and,  as  he  placed  it  in  the  grave,  the  girl  held 
over  it  a  cross  wreathed  with  roses,  and  the 
priest  and  peasants  sang  a  funeral  hymn.  When 
this  was  over,  the  priest  sprinkled  the  grave  and 
the  crowd  with  holy  water  ;  and  then  they  all 
went  into  the  church,  each  one  stopping,  as  he 
passed  the  grave,  to  throw  a  handful  of  earth  into 
it,  and  sprinkle  it  with  the  hyssop. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  voice  of  the 
priest  was  heard  saying  mass  in  the  church,  and 
Flemming  saw  the  toothless  old  sexton  treading, 
with  his  clouted  shoes,  the  fresh  earth  into  the 
grave  of  the  little  child.  He  approached  him, 
and  asked  the  age  of  the  deceased.  The  sexton 
leaned  a  moment  on  his  spade,  and,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  replied  :  — 


A    ROMANCE.  367 

u  Only  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  born  in  the 
night,  and  died  this  morning  early." 

"  A  brief  existence,"  said  Flemming.  "  The 
child  seems  to  have  been  born  only  to  be  buried 
and  have  its  name  recorded  on  a  wooden  tomb 
stone." 

The  sexton  went  on  with  his  work,  and  made 
no  reply.  Flemming  still  lingered  among  the 
graves,  gazing  with  wonder  at  the  strange  devices 
by  which  man  has  rendered  death  horrible  and 
the  grave  loathsome. 

In  the  temple  of  Juno  at  Elis,  Sleep  and  his 
twin-brother,  Death,  were  represented  as  children 
reposing  in  the  arms  of  Night.  On  various  fu 
neral  monuments  of  the  ancients  the  Genius  of 
Death  is  sculptured  as  a  beautiful  youth,  leaning 
on  an  inverted  torch,  in  the  attitude  of  repose 
his  wings  folded  and  his  feet  crossed.  In  such 
peaceful  and  attractive  forms  did  the  imagination 
of  ancient  poets  and  sculptors  represent  death. 
And  these  were  men  in  whose  souls  the  religion 
of  Nature  was  like  the  light  of  stars,  beautiful,  but 
faint  and  cold  !  Strange,  that,  in  later  days,  this 
angel  of  God,  which  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
into  the  "  land  of  the  great  departed,  into  the 
silent  land,"  should  have  been  transformed  into 


368 

a  monstrous  and  terrific  thing  !  Such  is  the 
spectral  rider  on  the  white  horse  ;  —  such  the 
ghastly  skeleton  with  scythe  and  hour-glass  ;  — 
the  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death ! 

One  of  the  most  popular  themes  of  poetry  and 
painting  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  continuing 
down  even  into  modern  times,  was  the  Dance  of 
Death.  In  almost  all  languages  is  it  written,  — 
the  apparition  of  the  grim  spectre,  putting  a  sud 
den  stop  to  all  business,  and  leading  men  away 
into  the  "  remarkable,  retirement  "  of  the  grave. 
It  is  written  in  an  ancient  Spanish  poem,  and 
painted  on  a  wooden  bridge  in  Switzerland.  The 
designs  of  Holbein  are  well  known.  The  most 
striking  among  them  is  that,  where,  from  a  group 
of  children  sitting  round  a  cottage  hearth,  Death 
has  taken  one  by  the  hand,  and  is  leading  it  out 
of  the  door.  Quietly  and  unresisting  goes  the  lit 
tle  child,  and  in  its  countenance  no  grief,  but  won 
der  only  ;  while  the  other  children  are  weeping 
and  stretching  forth  their  hands  in  vain  towards 
their  departing  brother.  It  is  a  beautiful  design, 
in  all  save  the  skeleton.  An  angel  had  been  bet 
ter,  with  folded  wings,  and  torch  inverted. 

And  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm. 
A  little  chapel,  whose  door  stood  open,  seemed 


ROMANCE. 


369 


to  invite  Flemming  to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful 
coolness.      He   went   in.      There    was    no    one 
there.     The  walls  were    covered  with  paintings 
and  sculpture  of  the  rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few 
funeral  tablets.     There  was  nothing  there  to  move 
the  heart  to  devotion  ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart 
of  Flemming  was  weak, —weak  as    a    child's 
He  bowed  his  stubborn  knees,  and  wept.     And, 
O,  how    many   disappointed    hopes,   how    many 
bitter  recollections,  how  much  of  wounded  pride 
and  unrequited  love,  were  in  those  tears  through 
which  he  read,  on  a  marble  tablet  in  the  chapel 
wall  opposite,  this  singular  inscription  :  — 

"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It 
comes  not  back  again.  Wisely  improve  the 
Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the 
shadowy  Future,  without  fear,  and  with  a  manly 

heart." 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of 
that  grave  had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken 
to  him  the  words  of  consolation,  which  his  soul 
needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet  spoken.  In 
a  moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still. 
The  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his 
heart  ;  death  was  no  longer  there,  but  an  angel 
clothed  in  white.  He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes 
24 


370  HYPERION, 

were  no  more  bleared  with  tears  ;  and,   looking 
into  the  bright,  morning  heaven,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  will  be  strong  !  " 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  pain 
ful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their 
departed  friends  ;  and  as  they  gaze  upon  them, 
lying  there  so  peacefully  with  the  semblance  that 
they  wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
touches  them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall 
together,  and  are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then 
descend  for  the  last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of 
the  Past,  with  painful  longings  to  behold  once 
more  the  dear  faces  of  those  he  had  loved  ;  and 
the  sweet  breath  of  heaven  touched  them,  and 
they  would  not  stay,  but  crumbled  away  and  per 
ished  as  he  gazed.  They,  too,  were  dust.  And 
thus,  far-sounding,  he  heard  the  great  gate  of  the 
Past  shut  behind  him,  as  the  Divine  Poet  did  the 
gate  of  Paradise,  when  the  angel  pointed  him  the 
way  up  the  Holy  Mountain  ;  and  to  him  likewise 
was  it  forbidden  to  look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man,  there  are  sudden 
transitions  of  feeling,  which  seem  almost  mirac 
ulous.  At  once,  as  if  some  magician  had  touch 
ed  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  the  dark  clouds 
melt  into  the  air,  the  wind  falls,  and  serenity  sue- 


A    ROMANCE.  371 

ceeds  the  storm.  The  causes  which  produce 
these  sudden  changes  may  have  been  long  at 
work  within  us  ;  but  the  changes  themselves  are 
instantaneous,  and  apparently  without  sufficient 
cause.  It  was  so  with  Flemming  ;  and  from  that 
hour  forth  he  resolved  that  he  would  no  longer 
veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance,  — 
no  longer  be  a  child's  plaything  in  the  hands  of 
Fate,  which  we  ourselves  do  make  or  mar.  He 
resolved  henceforward  not  to  lean  on  others  ;  but 
to  walk  self-confident  and  self-possessed  ;  —  no 
longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain  regrets,  nor  wait 
the  fulfilment  of  boundless  hopes  and  indiscreet 
desires  ;  but  to  live  in  the  Present  wisely,  alike 
forgetful  of  the  Past,  and  careless  of  what  the 
mysterious  Future  might  bring.  And  from  that 
moment  he  was  calm  and  strong  ;  he  was  re 
conciled  with  himself.  His  thoughts  turned  to 
his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea.  An  indescriba 
ble  sweet  feeling  rose  within  him. 

"  Thither  will  I  turn  my  wandering  footsteps," 
said  he,  "  and  be  a  man  among  men,  and  no 
longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth 
be  mine  a  life  of  action  and  reality  !  I  will  work 
in  my  own  sphere,  nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is. 
This  alone  is  health  and  happiness.  This  alone 
is  Life,  — 


372  HYPERION, 

'  Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end, 
And  when  it  conies,  say,  Welcome,  friend  ! ' 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this 
wise  resolve,  sooner  ?  Can  such  a  simple  result 
spring  only  from  the  long  and  intricate  process  01 
experience  ?  Alas  !  it  is  not  till  time,  with  reck 
less  hand,  has  lorn  out  half  the  leaves  from  the 
Book  of  Human  Life,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion 
with,  from  day  to  day,  that  man  begins  to  see 
that  the  leaves  which  remain  are  few  in  number, 
and  to  remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more 
clearly,  that  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book 
was  written  a  story  of  happy  innocence,  which  he 
would  fain  read  over  again.  Then  come  listless 
irresolution,  and  the  inevitable  inaction  of  despair  • 
or  else  the  firm  resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves 
that  still  remain  a  more  noble  history  than  the 
child's  story  with  which  the  book  bejjan." 


A    ROMANCE.  373 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    LAST    PANG. 

"  FAREWELL  to  thee,  Saint  Gilgen  !  "  said 
Flemming,  as  he  turned  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
to  take  his  last  look  at  the  lake  and  the  village 
below,  and  felt  that  this  was  one  of  the  few  spots 
on  the  wide  earth  to  which  he  could  say  farewell 
with  regret.  "  Thy  majestic  hills  have  impressed 
themselves  upon  my  soul,  as  a  seal  upon  wax. 
The  quiet  beauty  of  thy  lake  shall  be  to  me  for 
ever  an  image  of  peace  and  purity  and  stillness, 
and  that  inscription  in  thy  little  churchyard  a  sen 
tence  of  wisdom  for  my  after  life." 

Before  the  setting  of  the  same  sun  which  then 
shone  on  that  fair  landscape,  he  was  far  on  his 
way  towards  Munich  He  had  left  behind 
him  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol ;  and  beheld  them 
for  the  last  time  in  the  soft  evening  twilight,  their 
bases  green  with  forest-trees,  and  here  and  there 
a  sharp  rocky  spire,  and  a  rounded  summit  cap- 


374  HYPERION, 

ped  with  snow.  There  they  lay,  their  backs 
like  the  backs  of  camels ;  a  mighty  caravan,  re 
posing  at  evening  in  its  march  across  the  desert. 

From  Munich  he  passed  through  Augsburg  and 
Ulm,  on  his  way  to  Stuttgard.  At  the  entrances 
of  towns  and  villages,  he  saw  large  crucifixes  ; 
and  on  the  fronts  of  many  houses,  coarse  paint 
ings  and  images  of  saints.  In  Gunzburg  three 
priests  in  black  were  slowly  passing  down  the 
street,  and  women  fell  on  their  knees  to  receive  a 
blessing.  There  were  many  beggars,  too,  in  the 
streets  ;  and  an  old  man  who  was  making  hay  in 
a  field  by  the  road-side,  when  he  saw  the  car 
riage  approaching,  threw  down  his  rake,  and  came 
tumbling  over  the  ditch,  uttering  the  most  dismal 
wail,  with  his  hat  held  out  in  both  hands.  The 
next  day,  the  bright  yellow  jackets  of  the  postil 
ions,  and  the  two  great  tassels  of  their  bugle 
horns,  dangling  down  their  backs,  like  cauli 
flowers,  told  him  he  was  in  Wurtemberg  ;  and, 
late  in  the  evening,  he  stopped  at  a  hotel  in  Stutt 
gard  ;  and,  from  his  chamber-window,  saw,  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  the  old  Gothic  cathedral,  with 
its  narrow,  la.icet  windows  and  jutting  buttresses, 
right  in  front  of  him.  Ere  long  he  had  forgotten 
all  his  cares  and  sorrows  in  sleep,  and  with  them 
his  hopes,  and  wishes,  and  good  resolves. 


A    ROMANCE.  375 

He  was  slill  sitting  at  breakfast  in  his  chamber, 
die  next  morning,  when  the  great  bell  of  the  ca 
thedral  opposite  began  to  ring,  and  reminded  him 
that  it  was  Sunday.  Ere  long  the  organ  answer 
ed  from  within,  and  from  its  golden  lips  breathed 
forth  a  psalm.  The  congregation  began  to  as 
semble,  and  Flemming  went  up  with  them  to  the 
house  of  the  Lord.  In  the  body  of  the  church 
he  found  the  pews  all  filled  or  locked ;  they 
seemed  to  belong  to  families.  He  went  up  into 
the  gallery,  and  looked  over  the  psalm-book  of  a 
peasant,  while  the  congregation  sang  the  sublime 
old  hymn  of  Martin  Luther,  — 

"  Our  God,  he  is  a  tower  of  strength, 
A  trusty  shield  and  weapon." 

During  the  singing,  a  fat  clergyman,  clad  in  black, 
with  a  surplice  thrown  loosely  about  him,  came 
pacing  along  one  of  the  aisles,  from  beneath  the 
organ-loft,  and  ascended  the  pulpit.  After  the 
hymn,  he  read  a  portion  of  Scripture,  and  then 
said  :  — 

"  Let  us  unite  in  silent  prayer." 

And  turning  round,  he  knelt  in  the  pulpit,  while 
the  congregation  remained  standing.  For  a  while 
there  was  a  breathless  silence  in  the  church, 


376  HYPERION, 

which  to  Flemming  was  more  solemnly  impressive 
than  any  audible  prayer.  The  clergyman  then 
arose,  and  began  his  sermon.  His  theme  was 
the  Reformation  ;  and  he  attempted  to  prove 
how  much  easier  it  was  to  enter  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven  through  the  gateways  of  the  Reformec 
Evangelical  Dutch  Church,  than  by  the  aisles  anc 
penitential  staircases  of  Saint  Peter's.  He  then 
gave  a  history  of  the  Reformation  ;  and  when 
Flemming  thought  he  was  near  the  end,  he  heard 
him  say  that  he  should  divide  his  discourse  into 
four  heads.  This  reminded  him  of  the  sturdy  old 
Puritan,  Cotton  Mather,  who,  after  preaching  an 
hour,  would  coolly  turn  the  hour-glass  on  the 
pulpit,  and  say  :  "  Now,  my  beloved  hearers,  let 
us  take  another  glass."  He  stole  out  into  the 
silent,  deserted  street,  and  went  to  visit  the  vete 
ran  sculptor  Dannecker.  He  found  him  sitting 
alone,  with  his  psalm-book,  and  the  reminiscences 
of  a  life  of  eighty  years.  As  Flemming  entered, 
he  arose  from  the  sofa,  and  tottered  towards  him  ; 
a  venerable  old  man,  of  low  stature,  and  dressed 
in  a  loose  white  jacket,  with  a  face  like  Frank 
lin's,  his  white  hair  flowing  over  his  shoulders, 
and  a  pale  blue  eye. 

"  3°    you    are    from    America,"    said    he. 


A    ROMANCE.  377 

"  But  you  have  a  German  name.  Paul  Fleno- 
ming  was  one  of  our  old  poets.  I  have  never 
been  in  America,  and  never  shall  go  there.  I  am 
now  too  old.  I  have  been  in  Paris  and  in  Rome. 
But  that  was  long  ago.  I  am  now  eight-and- 
seventy  years  old." 

Here  he  took  Flemming  by  the  hand,  and  made 
him  sit  down  by  his  side,  on  the  sofa.  And 
Flemming  felt  a  mysterious  awe  creep  over  him, 
on  touching  the  hand  of  the  good  old  man,  who 
sat  so  serenely  amid  the  gathering  shade  of  years, 
and  listened  to  life's  curfew-bell,  telling,  with 
eight-and-seventy  solemn  strokes,  that  the  hour 
had  come,  when  the  fires  of  all  earthly  passion 
must  be  quenched  within,  and  man  must  prepare 
to  lie  down  and  rest  till  the  morning. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  in  a  melancholy 
tone,  "  my  hands  are  cold  ;  colder  than  yours. 
They  were  warmer  once.  I  am  now  an  old 
man." 

"  Yet  these  are  the  hands,"  answered  Flem 
ming,  <fcthat  sculptured  the  beauteous  Ariadne 
and  the  Panther.  The  soul  never  grows  old." 

11  Nor  does  Nature,"  said  the  old  man,  pleased 
with  this  allusion  to  his  great  work,  and  pointing 
to  the  green  trees  before  his  window.  "  This 


378  HYPERION, 

pleasure  I  have  left  to  me.  My  sight  is  still  good 
I  can  even  distinguish  ohjects  on  the  side  of 
yonder  mountain.  My  hearing  is  also  unimpair 
ed.  For  all  which  I  thank  God." 

Then,  directing  Flemming's  attention  vto  a  fine 
engraving,  which  hung  on  the  opposite  wall  of  the 
room,  he  continued  :  — 

"  That  is  an  engraving  of  Canova's  Religion. 
I  love  to  sit  here  and  look  at  it,  for  hours  to 
gether.  It  is  beautiful.  He  made  the  statue  for 
his  native  town,  where  they  had  no  church,  until 
he  built  them  one.  He  placed  the  statue  in  it. 
This  engraving  he  sent  me  as  a  present.  Ah; 
he  was  a  dear,  good  man.  The  name  of  his 
native  town  I  have  forgotten.  My  memory  fails 
me.  I  cannot  remember  names." 

Fearful  that  he  had  disturbed  the  old  man  in 
his  morning  devotions,  Flemming  did  not  remain 
long,  but  took  his  leave  with  regret.  There  was 
something  impressive  in  the  scene  he  had  witness 
ed  ; — this  beautiful  old  age  of  the  artist  ;  sitting 
by  the  open  window,  in  the  bright  summer  morn 
ing, —  the  labor  of  life  accomplished,  the  horizon 
reached,  where  heaven  and  earth  meet,  —  think 
ing  it  was  angel's  music,  when  he  heard  the 
church-bells  ring  ;  himself  too  old  to  go.  As  he 


A    ROMANCE.  379 

walked  back  to  his  chamber,  he  thought  within 
himself,  whether  he  likewise  might  not  accom 
plish  something  which  should  live  after  him,  — 
might  not  bring  something  permanent  out  of  this 
fast-fleeting  life  of  man,  and  then  sit  down,  like 
the  artist,  in  serene  old  age,  and  fold  his  hands  in 
silence.  He  wondered  how  a  man  felt,  when  he 
grew  so  old,  that  he  could  no  longer  go  to  church, 
but  must  sit  at  home  and  read  the  Bible  in  large 
print.  His  heart  was  full  of  indefinite  longings, 
mingled  with  regrets  ;  longings  to  accomplish 
something  worthy  of  life  ;  regret  that  as  yet  he 
had  accomplished  nothing,  but  had  felt  and 
dreamed  only.  Thus  the  warm  days  in  spring 
bring  forth  passion-flowers  and  forget-me-nots. 
It  is  only  after  midsummer,  when  the  days  grow 
shorter  and  hotter,  that  fruit  begins  to  appear. 
Then  the  heat  of  the  day  brings  forward  the  har 
vest,  and  after  the  harvest  the  leaves  fall,  and 
there  is  a  gray  frost.  Much  meditating  upon  these 
things,  Paul  Flemming  reached  his  hotel.  A 
that  moment  a  person  clad  in  green  came  down 
the  church-steps,  and  crossed  the  street.  It  was 
the  German  mechanic  of  Interlachen.  Flemming 
started,  as  if  a  green  snake  had  suddenly  crossed 
his  path.  He  took  refuge  in  his  chamber. 


380  HYPERION, 

That  night,  as  he  was  sitting  alone  in  his  cham 
ber,  having  made  his  preparations  to  depart  the 
following  morning,  his  attention  was  arrested  by 
the  sound  of  a  female  voice  in  the  next  room.  A 
thin  partition,  with  a  door,  separated  it  from  his 
own.  He  had  not  before  observed  that  the  room 
was  occupied.  But,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night; 
the  tones  of  that  voice  struck  his  ear.  He  listen 
ed.  It  was  a  lady,  reading  the  prayers  of  tht 
English  Church.  The  tones  were  familiar,  and 
awakened  at  once  a  thousand  painfully  sweet  re 
collections.  It  was  the  voice  of  Mary  Ashbur- 
ton  !  His  heart  could  not  be  deceived  ;  and  all 
its  wounds  began  to  bleed  afresh,  like  those  of  a 
murdered  man,  when  the  murderer  approaches 
His  first  impulse  was  of  affection  only,  boundless, 
irrepressible,  delirious,  as  of  old  in  the  green  val 
ley  of  Interlachen.  He  waited  for  the  voice  to 
cease,  that  he  might  go  to  her,  and  behold  her 
face  once  more.  And  then  his  pride  rose  up 
within  him,  and  rebuked  this  weakness.  He  re 
membered  his  firm  resolve,  and  blushed  to  find 
himself  so  feeble.  And  the  voice  ceased,  and 
yet  he  did  not  go.  Pride  had  so  far  gained  the 
mastery  over  affection.  He  lay  down  upon  his 
bed,  like  a  child  as  he  was.  All  about  him  was 


A    ROMANCE  381 

silence,  and  the  silence  was  holy,  for  she  was 
near  ;  so  near  that  he  could  almost  hear  the  beat 
ing  of  her  heart.  He  knew  now  for  the  first  time 
how  weak  he  was,  and  how  strong  was  his  passion 
for  that  woman.  His  heart  was  like  the  altar  of 
the  Israelites  of  old ;  and,  though  drenched  with 
tears,  as  with  rain,  it  was  kindled  at  once  by  the 
holy  fire  from  heaven  ! 

Towards  morning  he  fell  asleep,  exhausted  with 
*he  strong  excitement ;  and,  in  that  hour,  when, 
sleep  being  "  nigh  unto  the  soul,"  visions  are 
deemed  prophetic,  he  dreamed.  O  blessed  vision 
of  the  morning,  stay  !  thou  wast  so  fair !  He 
stood  again  on  the  green  sunny  meadow,  beneath 
the  ruined  tower  ;  and  she  was  by  his  side,  with 
her  pale,  speaking  countenance  and  holy  eyes  ; 
and  he  kissed  her  fair  forehead  ;  and  she  turned 
her  face  towards  him,  beaming  with  affection,  and 
said,  "  I  confess  it  now  ;  you  are  the  Magician  !  " 
and  pressed  him  in  a  meek  embrace,  that  he 
"  might  rather  feel  than  see  the  swelling  of  her 
heart."  And  then  she  faded  away  from  his  arms, 
and  her  face  became  transfigured,  and  her  voice 
like  the  voice  of  an  angel  in  heaven  ;  —  arid  he 
awoke,  and  was  alone  ! 

It  was  broad  daylight  ;  and  he  heard  the  pos- 


JUN07W1 


DATE  DUE 


=C\l 
jc\j 

ico 


so 
1° 

=00 


OCT  7     19^ 

6  1984 

MAY  ?• 

3  199  i 

fiFPTl  M/ 

Y    9  °  l°r-s 

1 

t\Lu  o  mt 

MAY  2  fl 

'1992     T 

^ 

REC'OJUN 

16  I99I 

CAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.  A. 

m. 


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